


A New Leaf

by eratospen



Series: At the End of War [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Belly Kink, Feeding Kink, M/M, Stuffing, Weight Gain, Weight Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:21:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25098316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eratospen/pseuds/eratospen
Summary: Male weight gain fanfiction. If this doesn't sound like your kind of kink, then this story is not for you.Hawke and Fenris have left Kirkwall post-explosion and are looking to start over in a small Ferelden community. There Hawke discovers a love for the simpler life and the two of them expand their horizons in more ways than one.(Includes later scenes of Hawke/Fenris/Isabela.)
Relationships: Fenris/Male Hawke
Series: At the End of War [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1817746
Comments: 2
Kudos: 34





	1. Chapter 1

“So,” Hawke said, scratching his beard awkwardly, “it looks like we’re farmers now.”  
  


Fenris just glanced at him, one dark brow arched.  
  


“Just…normal, everyday farmers,” Hawke continued. “Tilling the fields. Tending the sheep. Uh…farming the farmland.”  
  


“Hawke,” Fenris said, “whatever is bothering you, spit it out.”  
  


He flushed, straightening from his easy slouch; it felt bizarre to be in loose cotton pants and a clean linen shirt and _not_ his usual armor. It felt even stranger to look over and see _Fenris_ dressed down, casual in a way Hawke couldn’t ever remember seeing him. “Nothing,” he said, trying to will it to be true. “It’s nothing.”  
  


Fenris’s brow rose higher.  
  


Relenting, Hawke gave a helpless shrug. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “It’s just…look at this place.” He gestured around the little farmhouse they now shared. Its clapboard walls were painted a pale yellow, white trim around doors and windows adding a wholesome breeziness he didn’t remember even from his own youth growing up in Lothering. Window boxes were full of flowers, their scent wafting into the main room on every low breeze. Outside, he could hear dogs yapping and druffalo lowing. Children laughed.  
  


“I thought this was what we wanted?” Fenris asked, voice even. “Away from Kirkwall and magic and demons and _demands_ on your time.”  
  


Hawke rubbed his dark beard again. “Well…yes,” he said slowly. “I suppose it just feels strange not to have something to do. Or, well, someone to _fight_.”  
  


Fenris flashed his teeth. “You can fight me.”  
  


That earned a wry laugh. “Oh can I?” Hawke teased, grabbing for his lover. He caught Fenris about the waist, hauling him across the (soft, comfortable) couch and into his lap. Fenris went willingly enough, though he made a show of pretending to squirm free; the flash of humor in his eyes, the easy smile, was enough to convince Hawke this had been the right decision even if it still felt strange to let down his guard.  
  


He caught Fenris’s wrists and pinned them behind his back, keeping his grip light enough that Fenris could break free at any time. The catch of his breath, the slow dilation of his pupils, sent tendrils of heat curling through his big warrior’s body.  
  


_Maker_ , what Fenris could do to him with just one look.  
  


“You have caught me,” Fenris said, head tipping forward. He rested their foreheads together, breath hot against Hawke’s cheeks. “Now what will you do with me?”  
  


“Hmmm.” He pretended to think it over, even as he shifted his hips up, tightening his powerful stomach muscles and thighs to buck against the lean lines of his lover. Fenris’s breath caught. “I’m sure I could think of _something_ …”  
  


Fenris gave a little growl, suddenly biting at Hawke’s mouth, and that was all he needed to hoist him over, tossing Fenris across the plush couch and following him down—using his greater weight to pin him, hot and unresisting and so very welcoming against the cushions.  
  


He supposed, if retirement was like _this_ , he didn’t mind having so many empty hours to fill.


	2. Chapter 2

Eventually, they found a rhythm to their new lives. Fenris volunteered with the local militia, training the farmers and their children how to fight and defend their lands. He spent long hours running drills and barking out commands, and he seemed all the happier for it.  
  


For his part, Hawke had hung up his sword and swore to stick by that decision. It took some months of dabbling with this trade or that—trying his hand at druffalo herding and planting and leatherworking—before he rediscovered a talent he hadn’t explored in _years_.  
  


“I never figured I’d go from farmboy to soldier to mercenary to Champion to baker,” he said with a laugh, unpacking a basket full of fresh loaves. The local baker was an elderly woman with no family and an eye on retirement: she was only too glad to take Hawke under her wing and begin to teach him everything she knew.  
  


Mostly, he spent his days learning new recipes and practicing; he was a long, long ways away from baking anything decent enough to sell. Yet there was a soothing rhythm to measuring and mixing and kneading and baking (and, of course, eating his own attempts so he could build his palette and learn from mistakes). There was a peace he’d never felt even living in the lap of Kirkwall’s Hightown luxury.  
  


“You never figured a great many things,” Fenris said, setting aside his sword. He moved in to press an open-mouthed kiss to Hawke’s shoulder, one arm sliding around his trim waist. “Why should this be different?”  
  


Hawke snagged an iced sweet and turned in Fenris’s arms, laughing. “True enough,” he said, offering his lover a bite before popping the rest into his mouth. There wasn’t enough cinnamon; he’d have to remember to take a stronger hand with the spices next time. “Here’s to having an unpredictable life, I suppose.”  
  


“If it is all the same to you,” Fenris murmured, hands sliding up Hawke’s chest, teasing over the muscular pecs to broad, strong shoulders, “I could use a few years of predictable.”  
  


Hawke leaned in, nipping at the tip of one ear; he smiled at the strangled noise Fenris made. “You won’t get bored if we get soft and lose our edge?”  
  


Fenris just pressed closer, hips rocking up once against his—hard. “I am still fighting,” he teased as he let his head fall back, eyes fluttering closed. His breath came in uneven bursts. “ _You_ are the one who will lose your edge.”  
  


He just hummed and caught Fenris’s ass in his broad palms, dragging him closer. Their cocks (already half-hard from the tease of it, heat rising every second they were together) dragged in a delicious rasp. “I’m the Champion of Kirkwall,” Hawke teased, tongue trailing down the delicate shell of Fenris’s ear, voice husky. “I’ll never lose my edge.”  
  


“I— _Venhedis_ ,” Fenris gasped. He grabbed at Hawke’s dark hair and yanked his head down for a long, hot, blistering kiss. “Shut up, Hawke,” he finally managed on a low growl, then stroked his tongue deep into Hawke’s mouth to chase away all words, all breath, all thought.  
  


Everything but _Fenris_.


	3. Chapter 3

Fenris rested on one elbow, watching with sleepy eyes as Hawke dressed.  
  


“It is not even dawn,” he said—the same protest every morning. The militia didn’t gather until late in the morning, but Hawke had to be at the bakery before the sun rose to help get the morning bread out for the first customers.  
  


“Go back to bed,” Hawke soothed, the same way _he_ did every morning. It was a familiar rhythm by now, a schedule he could set his internal clock to. Every morning, Hawke rose while it was still dark. Every morning, he urged Fenris to go back to sleep.  
  


Every morning, Fenris stayed awake, watching his lover dress with fond, appreciative eyes, enjoying the sight of rippling muscle and a darkly furred chest.  
  


Only…  
  


He cocked his head, half-listening to whatever Hawke was saying, focusing in more closely on the other man. They had been together long enough that he knew Hawke’s body as well as he knew his own. He had kissed, bit, sucked on every bit of scarred skin that covered the delicious stretch of muscle; he could tell when something was different.  
  


And, subtle as it was, something was different.  
  


Fenris watched as Hawke tugged on his loose cotton trousers, buttoning the fly. _That_ was the difference, he decided. It was minute—barely worth noting—but where Hawke used to easily fasten the almost too-relaxed waistband, now he tugged just the slightest bit before slipping the buttons through their holes. As if the waistband had tightened somehow about his trim warrior’s waist.  
  


Or, perhaps, his warrior’s waist wasn’t _quite_ as trim as it used to be.  
  


He leaned his head against his fist, watching with open curiosity as a tiny roll of fat spilled over the lip of Hawke’s pants when he bent for his shirt. It was there and gone again in a flash, so subtle Fenris wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t known his Hawke so well, and yet…  
  


Yet, yes, Hawke had definitely lost some of the definition to his once washboard-tight abs. And gathering at his stomach and around his sides was the very faintest hint of softness—a tiny bit of pudge Fenris doubted Hawke himself was aware of, cutely rounding over his waistband when he bent.  
  


Fenris wanted to sink his teeth into that tiny roll, there and gone again, but he swallowed back the impulse. He didn’t want to make Hawke self-conscious about such a natural change in his body. He was retired; he was living an easier life. It was _good_ that he chose not to keep his body honed as a weapon. That little bit of pudge was like a promise to Fenris that Hawke meant to live and live _well_ here with him. Safe from a world that had been void-bent on killing him.  
  


_I hope he gets fat_ , a part of Fenris whispered. He couldn’t even imagine it, but he _wanted_ it, sudden and fierce. Visceral. Because if Hawke got fat, then he wouldn’t want to go back to Kirkwall to be their Champion again. If Hawke got fat, he wouldn’t insert himself in the middle of whatever ridiculous new conflict came their way.  
  


Instead, he’d stay home—a soft baker instead of a hard warrior, happy to remain in Fenris’s arms. Content in this life they were building together.  
  


“Come here,” Fenris demanded as Hawke finished pulling his shirt over his head. He reached out, grabbing the front of his collar and yanking him down for a fierce kiss. It went on and on, full of tongue and teeth and focused determination, one hand twined in his collar to keep him close.  
  


The other hand sliding under his shirt to rest at his waist, feeling that hint of softness with his fingertips as if he could somehow urge it to grow.


	4. Chapter 4

“Damn it,” Hawke muttered, chewing and swallowing with a scrunched-up frown. _Too much_ cinnamon this time.  
  


He sighed, staring morosely down at the pan of iced rolls. He’d been working on getting the recipe just right for weeks now— _months_! And yet no matter how many times he walked through the steps, no matter how carefully he measured, he was always just a little off.  
  


More annoyed with himself than was probably reasonable—though he was the Champion of Kirkwall, damn it!—Hawke stabbed his fork into the pan and took another bite. This time he made himself focus on the texture, the taste. The subtle flavors mixed with the bright sweetness of the thick sugar icing. He leaned forward, elbows resting on the counter, and shoveled another bit into his mouth, sorting out everything that had gone wrong bite by bite by bite. That was the only way he’d ever learn.  
  


In the front room of the bakery, his mentor Mrs. Willoughby was humming to herself as she swept the floors. The cooling racks and display cases were filled with her confections; _someday_ he’d manage to meet her exacting standards enough that one of his own creations made it out front for sale.  
  


But until then…  
  


He watched out the window, enjoying the sight of falling leaves as he almost perfunctorily ate his way through the pan. He was stuffed full from previous mistakes, but years of ignoring his own discomfort to keep fighting had now been translated into an impressive ability to just keep _eating_ even after he’d reached his natural limits.  
  


_It’s the only way you’ll learn_ , Mrs. Willoughby was fond of tsking, shaking one arthritic finger in his face before poking him in the overfull stomach. _If you make yourself sick on your own failure, you’ll start getting it right before long._  
  


Well, he supposed the last laugh was on her, because he could eat his own failure for hours and still find it in him to screw up again.  
  


Hawke sighed, doggedly reaching the end of the pan, chin resting in one hand as he absently ate with the other. Cumin. He probably needed a stronger pinch of cumin. Or maybe…  
  


He let out a sudden belch and quickly straightened with a guilty look toward the kitchen door. He’d been so wrapped up in his thoughts, he hadn’t been paying attention to how quickly he was scarfing the whole thing down; Maker, good thing no one was here to hear him.  
  


Even so, politeness demanded he murmur a quiet, “ _Excuse_ me,” before shoving the last bite into his mouth. He gathered up the pan to carry it to the sink, tossing it into the sudsy water and pausing just long enough to tug down his trousers a bit, rubbing his fist against the tight swell of his gut. It was comedic, somehow, just how stuffed he got. Today had been marked by more failures than usual, and he felt…  
  


Hawke slid a palm across the straining linen shirt, chuckling at the impressive swell of his stomach. It was poking out farther than usual today—he must have _really_ overdone it. Sometimes he worried about the comical sight he must make on days like today, practically waddling his way home with a gut like a woman in her first blush of pregnancy, pants riding low, shirt squeezing tight, belly button clearly visible against white cloth. But it felt _good_ to finally make it to that plush couch and unfasten his pants. It felt even better to suck gently on Fenris’s tongue as his lover’s clever hands massaged the hard swell of his belly— _no,_ stomach; only fat men had bellies, and he was a warrior—soothingly.  
  


He supposed it was worth putting up with the occasional gentle ribbing he got from villagers asking when the baby was due if it meant Fenris taking care of him like _that_. Besides, it was just overeating; the swollen dome went away again by the morning, just in time for him to kiss his lover goodbye and make his way back to the bakery to try, try again.  
  


Mrs. Willoughby stuck her head into the kitchen. “Boy,” she said—because she always called Hawke _boy_ , no matter that he was well into his thirties—“are you so reluctant to improve that you’re _napping_ in my kitchen?”  
  


Hawke laughed to himself, quickly scrubbing and rinsing the pan before moving (slower than usual, tightly-packed gut a steady ache) to gather ingredients to make another go of this—this time with just the right amount of cinnamon, he was sure of it. “No ma’am,” he said, diligently working. “I’ll have another batch for you in an hour.”  
  


“See that you do,” she said, sharp-tongued but fond. She eyed him up and down once, smiling, then turned on her heel and ducked back out into the main room.  
  


And Hawke settled into making the iced treat _again_ , swearing that this time he wouldn’t have to eat a whole pan of his failure. (An hour later, huffing labored breaths as he ignored discomfort and had to eat it anyone, bite by sugary bite.)


	5. Chapter 5

Hawke was really starting to gain weight, and it was driving Fenris _crazy_.  
  


He didn’t say anything about it—he wasn’t even sure just how aware Hawke was of the steady changes in his own body—but Fenris watched and mentally catalogued each change with a hunger he couldn’t deny. The slow softening of his lover was like an answered promised, or a prayer. Each little expansion was another confirmation that Hawke would never take up the sword again and put his life on the line.  
  


(At least, Fenris thought as he waited anxiously for Hawke to come home, that was what he could tell himself.)  
  


He spotted Hawke coming down the lane, a dark speck in the distance. In theory, the tall shape could have been _anyone_ , but the way it swayed gently back and forth, leading with its gut, made it obvious enough. Fenris was used to Hawke coming home stuffed from a long day, but as the snow began to fall and winter holidays approached, Hawke’s gluttony had become astonishing.  
  


“Festival. Pies,” he often wheezed as he waddled his way into the farmhouse, one hand on his packed-tight gut, the other sometimes resting at the small of his back as if he really _were_ pregnant. And Maker but on a good day he looked it. Fenris couldn’t imagine the amount of food Hawke had to consume to make himself swell up so big; he could only be there to help lead him to the couch and soothe his inflated middle with kisses and warm hands.  
  


_And to think_ , Fenris mused, watching as Hawke lumbered slowly closer, swaying even more than usual today, _festival is still over two weeks away._  
  


He bit the inside of his mouth, watching the ponderous progress as Hawke grew clearer and clearer. His linen shirt was stretched like a second skin, creeping up over the swell of his inflated gut even as the waist of his trousers rolled down. Fenris could see the pinched red lines visible at his hips, just under the soft roll of a muffin top—much more substantial than it had been just a few months ago. Nearly enough to grab a hold of and knead between his fingers if he dared.  
  


Hawke was flushed a bright red today, visible even under his beard. His lips were pursed in a steady O, thickened chest rising and falling as he huffed each breath. Both big hands cradled a truly massive gut, and oh Maker, Fenris could see the indention of his belly button clearly through straining fabric.  
  


He hopped down as Hawke lumbered up, already reaching to rest a soothing hand at the small of his lover’s back. “This Festival just may kill you,” Fenris said, though his words came out in a purr. He urged Hawke through the door, marveling at the way he had to waddle as if he truly were pregnant, gut thrust in a wide dome in front of him. He’d never seen Hawke so over-stuffed—so utterly packed with food.  
  


Hawke opened his mouth to answer, but all that came out was a huffing breath. He made his way to the couch with ginger steps, Fenris at his side, and flopped down with a grateful moan.  
  


The moment he landed, there was a sound of ripping cloth and a scattering of buttons as one, two, _three_ snapped clear of their threads and went flying. Fenris sucked in a breath, shocked and oddly turned on by the sudden gaping flashes of darkly furred _gut_. From this angle, Hawke looked absolutely massive.  
  


Hawke just rubbed at his belly, barely acknowledging the torn shirt. Or maybe he’d sunk himself so deep into a food coma that he didn’t even notice. “Pies are…are going to…be the…death…of me,” he managed, huffing on each word. He gave a low burp, muffling it in his fist. When he shifted, his dome of a stomach actually rested a little in his lap.  
  


Fenris dropped to his knees in front of Hawke, flushed and aroused and _amused_. “How many did you eat?” he asked, carefully reaching up to unfasten the rest of Hawke’s buttons. It was a struggle to tug them free—his shirt was painted on so tightly there was barely any room to slip his fingers—but it was worth it to reveal more and more of that straining skin. There were red lines creeping up the bottom slope of Hawke’s stomach, spanning in its own form of lyrium markings; he wanted to trace them with his tongue, this palpable proof of Hawke’s gain.  
  


“Four,” Hawke said on a moan; his gut actually rolled forward once it was freed, spanning proud from slightly softened pecs. His meaty arms rested at his sides and his head fell back. The beard hid whether there was any softening about his face. Maybe, Fenris mused as he struggled to unfasten Hawke’s pants, that’s how Hawke managed to ignore just how much he was packing on. His body he could blame on being stuffed, overlooking the softening that was happening in tandem. His face would have been another matter if he had only been able to see all of it.  
  


(Fenris liked to imagine he saw a small flash of softness there sometimes. It would certainly track with the way the rest of him was steadily expanding.)  
  


“No,” Hawke grunted when Fenris wrenched his trousers open, “five. Six? Bloody void, I lost count. More than any man was meant to eat, but I’m getting _close_ to getting the damn thing right.”  
  


“Mmm,” Fenris agreed, rubbing his thumbs soothingly along the deep red mark made by too-tight pants. He’d ordered new sets of clothing for Hawke ever since he’d started to notice how dangerously close he was to growing out of his current pair. With any luck, they would be ready before he ripped through every stitch he owned. “I am certain you will make it.”  
  


He made another noise and rubbed at the crest of his gut, then up the steady dome to where it met his meaty pecs. He even _smelled_ like sugar and flour and fruit. “Assuming I don’t pop first. Maker, look how fat I look,” Hawke added with a laugh, giving his belly a delicate pat.  
  


_Look how fat you are_ , Fenris corrected, kneeling between Hawke’s spread thighs, rubbing gently at his distended gut. The fallen-open shirt framed him, hiding the thickening rolls at his hips, the little swells of father gathering at his sides.  
  


“If I’m not careful, I’ll look like this bloody all the time.”  
  


“Would that be so bad?” Fenris asked, leaning in to kiss just below Hawke’s belly button. He traced the ever-deepening divot with his tongue, enjoying the way Hawke’s body expanded on a breath. When he got this full, Hawke could barely move to reciprocate during sex, but sometimes he allowed Fenris to push him flat against the bed and ride him, knees gripping the rounded swell of his body. Fenris slid his hands down to subtly cup the gentle overflow of his muffin top, lips sucking red marks down snaking stretch marks as Hawke sucked in another breath, held it, let it out slowly.  
  


His cock was straining against his trousers, nudging provocatively up against the rounded bottom of his gut. “Fenris, I’m too full to do much,” Hawke warned. He could hear the _but_ there, though.  
  


“Mm?” he murmured, daring to squeeze that ever-growing roll of flesh even as he nuzzled down between Hawke’s legs, lips learning the shape of him through the roughspun material.  
  


Hawke just groaned. “ _You’re_ going to be the death of me,” he grumbled, hips rocking up once. Then he grunted and flailed for the arm of the couch, trying to hoist himself up—belly-first, rising big and thick above him, swollen with promise—to standing. “All right, love,” Hawke said. “ _Bed_.”  
  


Fenris was up in a flash, pushing Hawke’s shirt off of him, revealing arms thick with muscle and a lining of fat, pressing his face against the gently growing softness of his chest and catching the bit of give there between his teeth. “ _Bed_ ,” he growled in agreement, herding Hawke back. Laughing when Hawke made a teasing druffalo noise as he lumbered into their bedroom, so round it was almost ridiculous, so gorgeous it was all Fenris could do not to drop to his knees and take him right there.  
  


Full and ripe and so full of promise. On his way to being actually truly _fat_.


	6. Chapter 6

Weeks and weeks of preparing for the winter festival. Weeks and weeks of two, three, four, _more_ pies a day. By the time festival day finally rolled around and the fruits of Hawke’s labors were packed into a small booth for townspeople to sample and admire, Fenris had gotten his wish.  
  


Because his lover? Was finally, officially _fat_.  
  


And there was every indication he was just going to get fatter.  
  


“You have been working long enough today, boy,” the kindly baker finally said after a long day slaving at the booth. From a few paces back from their stall, Fenris could watch the way she moved around Hawke, spry where Hawke was now much slower. Watching them, Fenris couldn’t help but think they looked like a fennic and a druffalo. “It’s time for you to have a little fun.”  
  


“I’m not sure I’d call pitched competition _fun_ ,” Hawke said with a deep laugh. He was doing that a lot more. Fenris could remember a time when Hawke was lean-bodied and muscular and hardened and _grim_ by necessity. Now he was… _round_ , belly pooching adorably over his waistband even when it wasn’t stuffed full, fleshy sides forming ever-growing rolls that strained against his shirt, ass wide enough to drive Fenris crazy. He laughed and joked and lazed about now more than he ever had, sinking into this new life as a pudgy baker as if he had been born into it.  
  


Fenris supposed that, in a way, he had. He wondered if Hawke the Lothering farmboy would have ever let himself go like this. If perhaps, in a way, it had always been his destiny to live the bucolic life—body thickening with every year that passed, muscle and fat swelling his form as the sun browned his skin and laugh lines etched themselves across his handsome, round-cheeked face.  
  


He could see it. He could see it _so clearly_.  
  


He was all too glad he was here to witness the transformation into Hawke’s true self.  
  


“Fun or not,” Mrs. Willoughby was saying, waving a finger at him before poking him in the side. Her fingertip dug into plush flesh, and there was no mistaking her pleased grin; sometimes Fenris felt like she was a co-conspirator, doing her best to fatten Hawke up as fast as possible like a prize hog. “You _will_ go and you _will_ compete and you _will_ win. For the shop, if for nothing else.”  
  


Hawke snorted, swatting away her hand fondly. “Are those my official orders then?”  
  


She grinned up at him, lines forming a weathered map about her ancient face. “It is.”  
  


“Well then.” He gave his rounded gut a hearty slap, and Fenris bit his lip as it watched it _shudder_ in the aftermath. Hawke was usually so blissfully overstuffed that his stomach remained a near-perpetual dome, only varying by size thanks to how hard he was pushed at the bakery that day. (How much he was forced to eat.) It was…uncommon for Fenris to be able to get a true reckoning of how much weight he’d packed on since they’d moved here. Judging by the thick meatiness of him—Maker, he could actually see the shadow of Hawke’s pecs, softened into juicy swells that just begged to be bitten and sucked—if they put a number to his gain, it would have been _high._ Fenris wondered if Hawke himself realized yet just how high. “It’s a good thing you’ve been training me for this so mercilessly, isn’t it? Andraste knows there isn’t a gut in town that can carry as much as this one can.”  
  


“Now there’s the fighting spirit.” She swatted at him again before waving Hawke off—catching Fenris’s eye as he straightened from his relaxed lounge. The old woman actually _winked_ as Hawke made his way over, and Fenris fought not to flush. If he ever had any doubt Mrs. Willoughby was taking wicked delight in the almost alarmingly fast expansion of his lover, that quenched it.  
  


But he couldn’t focus on her for long—not when Hawke was moving toward him. No, _lumbering_ toward him, balance as always thrown off by an ever-growing weight he still hadn’t adjusted to, much of it centered in the thick swell of his gorgeously round belly.  
  


Maker, but Hawke was getting big. It made his palms sweat.  
  


“Enjoying yourself?” Hawke asked, smiling wide. His cheeks were rounded out, soft and almost sweet-looking. Fenris swore he could see the fold of a growing second chin beneath Hawke’s beard (he’d certainly felt it as he kissed down that jaw, one naked thigh flung over ever-thickening hips), and he admired the way Hawke’s still-mostly-empty belly subtly _jiggled_ with each step. The edge of his shirt had come untucked with the motion, flashing occasional glimpses of furred belly; his sleeves had been rolled up high enough to show arms that were still thick with muscle despite the plush layer of fat.  
  


Fenris didn’t answer. Instead, he caught the collar of Hawke’s shirt and pulled him down for an open-mouthed kiss, pressing his lithe body up against all that soft flesh. He tried to imagine what it would feel like to kiss Hawke _next_ winter’s festival. If he continued to grow at this rate, he would be humongously obese, mountain of a gut spilling from heavy tits, rolling down to slap against thighs as thick around as Fenris’s waist. His arms would be heavy with fat that shuddered and waved as he wrapped his arms around Fenris, and he would be able to sink into him, lose himself in him, grab great handfuls of him and hold on forever.  
  


Hold on to his big, fat mountain of a warrior.  
  


He hummed into the kiss, rocking up against the swell of Hawke’s belly, ridiculously turned on by the thought. Hawke responded with a low groan, hands grasping for Fenris’s hips, tongue (tasting vaguely, as always, of sugar) twining with his. He broke the kiss after a few moments on a gasp, palms curving over his ass and squeezing subtly before retreating. “Someone is in a good mood,” Hawke teased.  
  


Fenris slid his hands around Hawke’s sides, fingers mapping out the spill of flesh that pushed farther over the waist of his pants with every breath. “It is good to watch you work,” he said by way of explanation. Then, forcing himself to let go and step away, he added, “What is this competition you are to win?”  
  


“Oh.” Hawke chuckled, rubbing at the back of his neck. The movement pulled his shirt deliciously taut over his belly and chest. “Mrs. Willoughby donated pies for the pie-eating contest. She wants me to take home the gold for her. Apparently it’s a big honor around here. And, uh...”  
  


His cheeks flushed and he reached down, patting the rounded curve of his gut. _Shyly_ , almost, as if he wasn’t sure he should be calling attention to it. “I guess I’ve been putting on a little weight eating my way through my failure, so if anyone can scarf a few pies, it’s going to be me.”  
  


Putting on a _little_ weight?  
  


Fenris kept a straight face. “Then we had better get you signed up, Hawke,” he said, not letting his eyes drop to the way Hawke patted that round gut. Hawke sometimes mentioned _beefing up_ or _being stuffed like a prize hog_ , but he rarely talked in frank terms about being _fat_ even when there was no denying it—when chairs creaked beneath his weight, or a button or three popped off his shirt, or he _knocked something over_ with the wide dome of his over-stuffed belly. Fenris wondered if he was in deep denial or if he was simply compartmentalizing—enjoying the moment so thoroughly that he didn’t even think about what eat sweet he stuffed into his ever-growing body would mean.  
  


Would there come a time when he startled awake and realize, _fuck_ , he’d let himself go to seed in truly spectacular fashion? Would Hawke one day spot himself in a mirror and jolt up in shock to realize that deliciously round, soft, jiggling body belonged to _him_?  
  


Maker, Fenris hoped he was there to witness the moment of realization if he did—even if the thought made him feel like the worst sort of enabler.  
  


He slipped his hand in Hawke’s, offering open affection the way he rarely used to in their lives _before_ , and pushed away the flush of shame as they searched out the pie-eating contest. There was no missing it: the scent alone would have drawn them (drawn Hawke), sugar and candied fruit sweet on the breeze. There was a growing crowd and a few contestants already bellying up to the main table. They groaned when Hawke squeezed Fenris’s hand and moved to join them.  
  


“This is hardly fair,” one of them—a farmer closing in on three hundred pounds and sunburned nearly to a crisp—laughed. He rubbed at his own sagging belly, already spilling past the strain of his suspenders. “Everyone knows the baker’s boy is a shoo-in.”  
  


“Mrs. Willoughby trains them up right,” a woman added. She was seating herself to Hawke’s right, hair primly pulled back from a fresh-cheeked face. “And she _boasts_ about how you’re the best she’s ever met.”  
  


Hawke just grinned good-naturedly and took a seat, cracking his knuckles expectantly. “Well, I _am_ a champion,” he said; then winked at Fenris broadly, utter ham that he was.  
  


Fenris barely controlled himself from rolling his eyes in response.  
  


A few other competitors came up to the long table to take their seats, and before long the announcer was reading out the rules and prizes as his helpers were setting out stacks of pies. They towered high next to each competitor, golden-crusts gleaming in the sun, practically bursting with blueberries, cherries, apples… The smell was incredible—a cacophony of scents—and an expectant hum filled the air. Fenris edged his way around the crowd so he could keep a close eye on Hawke, feeling a guilty flush for his all-too-prurient interests even as his eyes swept his lover hungrily.  
  


Mentally taking a _before_. Maker, but he loved the _afters_.  
  


“All right,” the announcer called. “On my count. Contests, on your mark…get set…Andraste be with you, _go_.”  
  


And it began.  
  


The fat farmer took the early lead, practically diving head-first into his first pie. Hawke, by contrast, moved at a much slower pace. _Too_ slow for the crowd (who let him know it with a mix of cheers and boos and laughter), but Fenris nodded to himself. The farmer would flare out far too quickly if he tried to keep up that pace, and Hawke was nothing if not an expert at overeating by now. He moved with easy efficiency, scooping mouthfuls and allowing himself to chew and swallow just as he had the next ready. Then the next. Then the next.  
  


The woman glanced at him, cheeks puffed, lips a smear of blue. Hawke simply grinned and took a flashy bite, catching a dribble of cherry as it threatened his beard, eating it neatly. The table in front of him was nearly pristine (in contrast to the mess the others were making) and his slowly-straining shirt was stain-free as he piled another empty tin. Another.  
  


_Another_.  
  


Fenris watched, biting the inside of his mouth, as Hawke methodically made his way through _four pies_ as if they were nothing. Much of that had to be bravado, but void, but it made his own stomach clench in response. He watched as Hawke shifted, squirmed, then paused just long enough to lick his fingers clean and reach down to pop open his trouser button. The pooch of his gut swelled forward another inch, and Fenris had to curl his hands into fists when he realized it was already nearly touching Hawke’s lap— _stuffed_ and round, but still ready for more.  
  


Hawke rubbed at the outer curve of it, taking a breath before diving back in. A few of the others were visibly flagging—a few had dropped out—but Hawke remained focused on _eating_. He kept up his pace, chewing, chewing, swallowing, chewing some more…swelling visibly now with every few bites. It was incredible, _watching_ him grow. Fenris swore he could almost hear the strain of his skin as his gut pushed out…or was that the sound of his shirt slowly straining at the seams? The edge of it was rolling up as the seconds ticked by, revealing more and more round, hairy belly, marred by pink-and-silver stretch marks drawn absolutely taut.  
  


He rubbed his belly again, digging his palm into the thick dome, and when he arched his back to take a breath, he looked positively gravid with child—close to _popping_. Hawke shifted again, and when he relaxed, his gut rested perfectly within his lap, ready to start pushing his thick thighs apart with each additional mouthful of food he stuffed into that mammoth gut.  
  


“Look at him go,” someone whispered, and Fenris realized with a start that even the fat farmer had given up—collapsed back in his chair, covered in juice, panting weakly. Hawke was the only competitor still going, still eating, pushing himself past any reasonable limit as he ate and ate and ate and _ate_ with a relentless focus that was near mesmeric. The whole crowd seemed fixated, watching as Fenris’s lover fattened himself in front of them: eight pies in? Nine? More? Yes, _definitely_ more. He looked utterly massive, as if he really was growing fatter with each second. Bigger, certainly, than even the most expectant mother.  
  


Hawke’s shirt gave a final whine and split up one side, revealing a huge swath of belly. He shifted his thighs apart, letting it settle between them, and tucked into yet _another_ pie even as his chair creaked beneath him.  
  


Finally, the dumfounded announcer hopped up onto the stage. “And we have a winner!” he called. “Garrett Hawke!”  
  


Hawke kept eating like a man possessed. One hand was pressed flat against his belly and finally a bit of the mess was making its way through, cherry filling catching on his lips and beard, a smudge painting the broad swell of his gut where he rubbed his flesh.  
  


“Hawke. _Hawke_ ,” the announcer said, leaning in, and only then did Hawke startle out of his near-fugue state, pie three-quarters done, mouth open on a heaving breath. The far edge of his gut brushed the table, and Fenris shuddered in response.  
  


“I am pleased to crown our new champion,” the man said as one of his helpers stepped forward to offer Hawke a napkin and place a colorful flower crown on his head. He belched loudly, then covered his mouth with a fist, looking dazed and sheepish. The crown tilted, falling over one eye in a rakish pose. “Congratulations!”  
  


Hawke opened his mouth to answer…then just wheezed and flopped back. He wiped himself off, cleaning up all but the smudge on his heaving belly before tossing the handkerchief down and rubbing both hands along his swollen gut. The other contestants were either doing the same or making their slow way off the stage; the crowd began to slowly disperse, a few lingering to offer Hawke laughing congratulations.  
  


“You’d better watch yourself, boy,” an old woman laughed, giving Hawke’s huge belly a gentle pat. “Keep going like you are and you’ll be rounder than my old husband, Abe—and we had to roll him into his coffin at the end!”  
  


Fenris glared her down, but Hawke just grinned and waved her off, too blissed out to care. His beard still hid much, but Fenris could see a clear fold of his nascent double chin as Hawke relaxed fully back, seeming to melt into his seat. His thighs were spread wide and his pants open—his shirt was split up one side and rolled well above the thick gash of his belly button—his meaty pecs seemed softer than ever in comparison with the bloated paunch, and the flesh along his sides rolled rhythmically over the biting waist of his _open_ pants, more than thick enough to grip.  
  


He knew better than to think Hawke had gained a good thirty pounds just from one sitting, but in that moment, he certainly _looked_ thirty pounds heavier. And all that on top of the weight he’d gained leading up to day.  
  


“Your flowers are crooked,” Fenris said when they were finally alone. The rest of the festival was spinning around about them, but up here, on the abandoned stage, they had a semblance of privacy.  
  


“I’m…starting a new…trend,” Hawke managed. He seemed to be having trouble stringing words together. His chair creaked as he leaned farther back. “Ah, fuck…Fenris…I think I ate my weight in…pies.”  
  


_Impossible_ , Fenris thought, wishing he had the privacy needed to say it aloud. _You’re far too fat for that._ How would Hawke respond if he said that? Was he as excited by these changes as Fenris was? Would he be shocked to know Fenris wanted to straddle his thick lap and rub himself off against the massive swell of his belly?  
  


Fenris cleared his throat. “Can you walk?” he asked, just shy of too sharp.  
  


Hawke considered that. He reached out with one hand to grip the table edge, the other flailing for the side of his chair. He began to hoist himself up slowly, belly first—rising monstrously huge and bloated above him, like a weather balloon. He rose rose rose, seam of his shirt crying out in protest…then suddenly grunted and fell back with a crash and a warning crack of wood. Hawke dropped his head back, huffing in helpless breaths, utterly pinned in place by his own bulk.  
  


Maker, but he needed to get Hawke home _now_ so he could do a thousand wicked things to his essentially immobilized form.  
  


Unaware of the lust flaring deep inside Fenris’s gut, Hawke simply groaned and rubbed circles against his belly. It was so stuffed, the little jiggle of fat was barely there, skin stretched impossibly tight. The rise and fall had sent the waist of his pants rolling down a little, giving himself more room to spread. “Can’t you carry me?” he moaned, mostly teasing. Mostly.  
  


Fenris frowned, thrilling inside at the idea that…no, no he probably couldn’t. Not now. And he was hardly a weak man. “Not without sending us both rolling to the ground,” he said, then suddenly had an idea. Fenris pulled back a step, taking in Hawke’s bloated and helpless form, his red-cheeked face, his flower crown. “Wait here,” he added, turning on his heel.  
  


He thought he heard Hawke mumble, “Can’t bloody…well _go_ anywhere right now…can I?” before he was gone to hunt down a friendly neighbor and his hay cart. It took both of them to hoist the former warrior up on his feet and a third to help lift him into the cart—three strong, grinning, wise-cracking men, each taking turns to tease Hawke, asking after the upcoming birth of his litter of children, wondering if he’d be able to squeeze himself into the door of his home, taking bets on whether the bed would finally give out under him.  
  


Hawke just waved them off good-naturedly, crown still in place (still cocked rakishly over one eye), shirt rucked up so much in the commotion that it barely covered his tits, dark fur lining the high dome of his bouncing gut as the cart made its way through town toward their home—carrying them away from a successful fair and a new kind of champion-hood Fenris could finally appreciate.  
  


(Secretly wondering what damage the day would do to his lover’s ever-growing waistline.)


	7. Chapter 7

Isabela sent word that she’d be visiting late that winter, nearly into the first blush of spring—and of course, because it was Isabela, she arrived not one hour after that warning letter reached them.  
  


Hawke was still at work, baking up a storm in his “final test” to move from apprentice to journeyman baker. He’d been dragon-focused on it all winter long, determined to make the leap before spring finally reached their peaceful farming community. He slaved away all day at the bakery, then came home and practiced for much of the night; Fenris remembered well this level of dedication. Hawke had once shown it toward honing his body into a weapon so he could face the Arishok, face the mad Templar, face anyone who threatened them.  
  


Now? Now there was no threat—there was nothing but peace—and Hawke’s dedication was molding him into something different altogether.  
  


All of which was exactly what Fenris wanted to see…except he couldn’t control the worried swoop in his gut as he re-read Isabela’s hastily-dashed letter. Hawke had been so sanguine and blissfully near-ignorant of the changes in his body. Or, if not ignorant, at least happy enough to overlook them, especially since Fenris went out of his way to make sure Hawke knew just how desirable he was. But Isabela wasn’t known for her subtle tongue; there was no way she was going to take the significant change in the former Champion of Kirkwall in stride without teasing him mercilessly…which could upset that delicate, happy balance Fenris and Hawke had managed to find.  
  


_Damn_.  
  


Fenris tossed down the letter, striding out of the kitchen and toward their bedroom. There was no point standing about, worrying. He needed to go meet Hawke in town for their now-traditional walk back to the farm. He only had thirty minutes at most to come up with the gentlest way possible to warn Hawke about Isabela’s incoming visit. They likely had a week, week weeks at most before she arrived. Perhaps if they were properly braced, the pirate wouldn’t do _too_ much harm and—  
  


“Well _someone_ is doing well for themselves.”  
  


Fenris froze mid-step at the familiar low purr. He closed his eyes. “Isabela,” he said by way of greeting. This was _not_ how he’d wanted this day to go. His lover would be coming home either flush with victory or bottomed out with momentary defeat. Fenris had wanted to spend the evening celebrating or consoling by licking his way up the wide curve of his lover’s gut and biting deep bruises into the soft give of his tits before straddling that ever-widening waist and rubbing his cock against the full heft of Hawke’s belly even as he drove himself down on his rigid dick.  
  


This— _this_ —was not part of his plans.  
  


She laughed as if sensing his annoyance, and Fenris heard the soft rasp of cloth on cloth, followed by the creak of the chair. He turned, scowling, to spot Isabela making herself at home in his favorite armchair, one nearly-bare leg hooked over the arm, the other dangling in an artless sprawl—revealing far, far too much of her bronzed thighs and a hint of what waited between her spread legs.  
  


He arched his brow and she laughed again before swinging herself up, dark hair falling around her. “Oh, don’t be like that; I was just seeing if the winds may have changed since last we met,” she said. Isabela stood, snagging a flashy tri-corn hat and plopping it on her head. Its huge red plume danced with the motion. “You and Hawke always were the gold ring for any sensible girl looking for a good time.”  
  


“Hello, Isabela,” Fenris said, ignoring that. “You didn’t give much warning.”  
  


She moved closer, smile widening with true warmth. “I didn’t think I’d have to. Let me get a good look at you,” she added, plucking at his home-spun shirt. It was simple and comfortable, laced at the neck but otherwise relaxed around his body. In fact, everything he wore was _relaxed_ these days—long gone were the leather and spikes. (Well. Except for on special occasions, but that was for Hawke alone.) “You look like a _farmer_!” she said on a laugh. “The bucolic life really has been treating you well.”  
  


Fenris crossed his arms over his chest. “Well enough,” he said.  
  


Isabela walked around him, eyeing him up and down in that teasingly lascivious way she had…then slowly tipped her head as she reached his front again. She flicked her gaze down, then back up, one brow arching.  
  


“ _What_?” he demanded, not really annoyed.  
  


She must have sensed that—or perhaps she was simply relying on their many years of close friendship (and brief stint as lovers, back when he was stupidly trying to exorcise Hawke from his heart and mind), because she reached down with no fear to touch him. Fenris tensed, expecting her to cup his privates and make some crude joke, but her hand landed a little higher, fingers gently squeezing his stomach.  
  


“ _Someone_ ’s maybe settling a little too well,” Isabela said with a wide grin…and Fenris’s worldview took a sudden, sharp turn.  
  


He looked down, brows snapping together, to stare at the way her brown hand cupped the front of his tunic—now flattened against his body by her touch. His stomach pooched out in a delicate roll, just enough to overflow her palm; certainly big enough that she could close her fingers around the soft pudge and give a pinch.  
  


Which she _did_ , shamelessly, laughing brightly as his little belly jiggled. Fenris was all at once aware of the bite of his trousers around his hips, all at once aware of the subtle muffin top forming at his waist, all at once aware that somewhere along the way, as he’d been watching with intent focus as his lover grew fatter and fatter and fatter that _he_ was starting to…  
  


What? He certainly wasn’t fat himself, but he was no longer so _svelte_ either. Not quite chubby, but not… _not-_ chubby either.  
  


He batted Isabela’s hands away as she tried to push up his shirt. “Stop that,” Fenris said. “I’m not bigger than you are.”  
  


“But I’ve _always_ been more than a handful,” she teased, wrapping an arm around his middle in one quick, fierce hug. “This is new. I take it you’re not working yourself to the bone then.” Her brows danced. “What does Hawke think of your newly zaftig form?”  
  


“I’m not—” he began to protest, flushing hot all the way up to his ears. He was hypeaware of his own body now, feeling the way his stomach gently expanded against the waist of his trousers with every breath. _Damn_ Isabela anyway. “He is fine with it. _We_ are fine.”  
  


She waggled her brows again. “You certainly are,” Isabela said, then danced away before he could take a half-hearted swing at her. “Oh, don’t be cross, Fenris: you look wonderful. _Happy_. And that’s what matters, right?”  
  


He couldn’t help but wonder if she’d say the same thing about Hawke. “Perhaps,” Fenris said, mind turning over the problem. There was little chance he’d be able to convince Isabela to remain here while he hiked back to town and warned Hawke about her arrival. He’d _really_ wanted a chance to prime his lover, to inure him against just this sort of gentle teasing, but… Well, the plans of mortals and all that. He was going to have to come up with a new plan, this time to keep Isabela from opening her mouth and ruining a good thing. “Look,” he added, firming up his plan. “Isabela, you should know—”  
  


“What a _darling_ little cottage the two of you have,” she said, brushing past him and heading down the hall. Her bare feet thwapped against the rustic floorboards. “It’s like something out of a picture book. Oh, is this your _bedroom_?”  
  


Fenris pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezing shut at the sound of Isabela throwing open a door and…yes, jumping onto the bed.  
  


There was a bright laugh, followed by a creak of springs. “It’s so _big_. You could fit four of Hawke and two of you on here!” she called back to him. “Please, _please_ tell me the two of you host scandalous little parties for all the adventurous locals.”  
  


With a sigh, Fenris headed to his bedroom. Isabela was standing on the (huge) mattress, hands on her hips as she surveyed the heaping pile of pillows, the extra cozy blankets, the incredibly _sturdy_ frame. She looked up as he entered and grinned. “Will I be invited to the next one?”  
  


“There are no sex parties,” Fenris said—and he could hardly believe he was forced to say as much. “There will be no—”  
  


He stopped, freezing in place, as the outer door swung open.  
  


“Fen?” Hawke called, booming voice echoing through the small cottage. “I’m back early with some _great_ news!”  
  


Isabela’s eyes lit up. She pressed a finger to her lips before snagging something on her belt—one of her old invisibility clouds.  
  


“Wait, Isabela, no,” Fenris began, but she was already crushing it in her hand and disappearing. He felt what could have been a soft breeze past, silent and swift, and Fenris cursed low in his throat and threw himself after her. He couldn’t see her, had no way of knowing where she had gone, but he needed to yank her back before she spotted Hawke and ruined everything needed to—  
  


Hawke was shutting the door behind him, big (big) frame briefly haloed by the setting sun. He was dusted in a soft powder of snow, flakes caught like stars in his dark hair and beard and gathering along the folds of his coat.  
  


He grinned when he spotted Fenris darting into the room, wide, _round_ face brightening beautifully. His sweetly fat cheeks dimpled, double chin more than obvious even with the beard now. “You, my love,” he said, struggling out of his coat. "Are looking at the town's new journeyman baker. It was wonderful. I..." He kept going as he fought with the coat. It clung to his meaty shoulders and thick arms, making him have to shake it free. His whole big body jiggled with the motion—nothing more so than his belly, which, in this moment, struck Fenris as frankly huge. It soared out from thick, fatty tits in one big ball. Fenris had seen all sorts of fat men in his life, taking all sorts of shapes. Hawke’s body, it seemed, was determined to be as round as possible: his furred gut stuck out in a proud dome even when empty (and it was almost never empty), tits resting on the wide top. Unless lifted up, it rested on thighs thick with fat and muscle, and covered much of his privates now. His sides were juicy rolls of flesh, and his arms were a perfect mix of former strength and current bottomless gluttony. More rolls curved along his back, leading into a wide, perfect ass.  
  


He’d long since passed _fat_ over the winter. That festival where he’d over-stuffed himself past being able to stagger to his feet had been the tipping point, adding pound after pound on him in quick succession as he focused on studying for his journeymanship. Hawke outgrew his clothes almost as quickly as they could be purchased: proven now by the way his incredibly tight shirt was riding up to reveal a wide crescent of skin, deep belly button visible as he finally freed himself of his coat. Those fat cheeks were flushed with the effort, and he was still grinning as he described his recent victory…and Isabela still hadn’t revealed herself.  
  


_Fuck_.  
  


“Hawke,” Fenris said, speaking over his lover. “Hawke. _Garrett_.”  
  


Hawke stopped talking (something about a cherry-glazed pie) and looked at him, cocking his head in question.  
  


Fenris cleared his throat. “We have a visitor,” he said—seconds before a _gaping_ Isabela popped into view.


	8. Chapter 8

“Maker’s tits, Hawke,” Isabela breathed, finally breaking the terrible silence. The three of them had frozen the moment she appeared, trapped in an awkward, endless tableau.  
  


She shook herself out. “No. _Your_ tits, Hawke. Hawke. _Hawke_. You have _tits_.”  
  


That was enough to break Fenris out of his horrified spell. He jerked forward, grabbing Isabela’s elbow in a tight, punishing grip— _shaking_ her with his fury. “You will shut your mouth,” he snarled, lighting up with blue-white light, markings charging for the first time in well over a year. “You will—”  
  


He was stopped—stunned—paralyzed with a whole new kind of shock at the sudden boom of Hawke’s laughter. It poured out of his lover, filling the room with so much brightness that Fenris’s markings automatically flickered and dimmed; both he and Isabela stared at Hawke, who just stood there: gorgeous in his too-tight clothing, belly visibly stuffed with pastries, _jigging_ with his laughter. He had one hand up, shyly rubbing at the back of his neck, beautifully, undeniably _fat_ …and he didn’t seem to care that one of his oldest friends was there to see it.  
  


He knew. Maybe he’d known all along—and he didn’t care.  
  


Fenris slowly loosened his grip on Isabela’s arm, watching his lover blush prettily as any maid. Those dimples were flashing deep as he dropped his other hand to his gut, giving it a solid rub.  
  


“I’ve got a lot more than tits, ‘Bela,” he teased, completely unselfconscious.  
  


Well. Maybe not completely. Though he dropped his other hand, he was still blushing a bright pink. That stain of color made Fenris want to swoop in and cover his round cheeks with kisses.  
  


“In fact, I’ve got a whole lot more than I used to pretty much all over. Want to give me a squeeze and find out?” He opened his arms in question, brow cocked, and Isabela flew toward him with a trilling laugh. She _launched_ herself into his arms, no lightweight herself, but Hawke was solid as a rock: he didn’t so much as grunt as he caught her and hauled her up into a whirling hug, spinning her around as easily as if she were Merrill.  
  


His shirt, Fenris noted with interest, rode up just a little higher at the exertion.  
  


“What are you doing here?” Hawke was saying as he let Isabela down. “Let me take a look at you.” He put his hands to her shoulders and pushed her back a step so he could look her up and down. “You look good. I like the hat.”  
  


Isabela grinned back cheekily. “You look different,” she parroted. “Does Fenris like the gut?”  
  


Fenris scowled at that, but Hawke just laughed again, lifting his palms in surrender. That seemed to be all the permission Isabela needed to get her hands on him, shoving up his shirt until it rested just beneath his heavy chest, baring the big, round sphere that was Hawke’s gut. It was straining wide and visibly hard to the touch, snaking stretch marks outlining the sheer girth of it like Hawke’s very own vallaslin. “Oh Maker, look at it,” Isabela said in something almost like a coo, giving his belly a gentle rub. “It looks like you swallowed the Arishok whole. Tell me the truth, Hawke,” she added, looking up, hands framing the widest part of him. “Did Fenris finally manage to knock you up? You look like you’re about to burst with a whole _litter_ of scowling little half-elves.”  
  


Hawke snorted and gently batted her hands away. “Careful there,” he said, giving the tight drum of his belly a pat. “I’m carrying my victory in there. I just made journeyman baker today,” he explained. “I’ve been practicing for months now.”  
  


“Practicing how?” she mused, stepping back to eye him up and down. With his shirt hiked up, there was no hiding the thick rolls spreading in an apron of fat around his waist. “By eating your way through the bakery?”  
  


“More or less.” Hawke tilted his head toward the living room and moved to his favorite seat—well, waddled there, belly swaying pregnancy-round in front of him. It was familiar enough to Fenris, who saw his lover come home more often than not after days at the bakery overstuffed from “eating his own failure”, but Isabela gave an appreciative whistle.  
  


“You look like a skiff on rough seas,” she said, hopping elegantly over the back of the couch to settle in close just as Hawke carefully lowered himself down. The furniture creaked warningly under their combined mass. “Except I’d never let my vessel take on so much extra weight.”  
  


Hawke leaned back, legs kicked out, naked belly resting on his thighs. He folded his hands philosophically over his furred gut. “I seem to recall the rear of your vessel takes on plenty of extra weight during festival season,” he said benignly. Then Hawke twisted his head around. “Fenris, love, come join us.”  
  


It felt…strange to step forward, even stranger to allow himself to be caught and reeled gently to Hawke’s other side, to settle in his usual place curled around the thick mass of him. He’d always thought of this thing they shared as a secret just between them—a secret even _they_ didn’t talk about. When Hawke had first begun gaining weight, it had been a shock…which morphed into increasing smug pleasure at the idea that Hawke’s body could no longer be used as a weapon. Not when he let himself go so soft and fat, not when he transformed from muscle-bound warrior to _this_.  
  


And of course, the erotic element to Hawke’s growth couldn’t be denied. Fenris _loved_ the changes in his lover’s body. He _loved_ watching him stuff himself over meals, _loved_ watching the way he waddled and swayed, _loved_ the huge heft of him as he lay back in bed, utterly packed to the gills, eyes hot as Fenris worked himself desperately on his cock.  
  


Having a third person there, commenting on Hawke, touching Hawke, pinching his folds of fat and gently mocking him, was… Strange. Not unpleasant. Maybe a little unexpectedly erotic, too.  
  


Isabela slapped her hand against Hawke’s belly, scoffing with a sly light in her eyes at the way it wobbled, and Fenris had to quickly revise that opinion. Make that _unsettlingly_ erotic. He never taunted Hawke or used crude jokes or called him fat—he’d always been too scared to draw Hawke’s attention to his weight to even mention it in more than passing. But here Isabela was, rising up on her knees to say in no uncertain terms: “I just can’t get over how much you’ve let yourself go. What did you do since coming here? Park your ass at the kitchen table and let Fenris funnel everything he could reach into your inflating gut?”  
  


_That_ made Fenris squirm in a thoroughly unexpected way, horrified arousal sparking through his body.  
  


Hawke flushed, but he didn’t look offended. Fenris had the feeling Isabela wouldn’t be saying half of what she was if she thought he would be. ‘Bela had always been so very good at reading people when she wanted to…especially when it came to something like this.  
  


“That’s not too far off the mark,” Hawke said. He deliberately leaned back against the couch, arching his back subtly—making that giant dome rise above him. It wobbled a little but remained impressively firm thanks to cakes and pies and sweet success. “Fenris has taken to spoiling me, and it turns out his brand of spoiling is incredibly fattening. Isn’t that right, Fenris?”  
  


Fenris had to swallow, shifting to rest his weight on his hip and hide how turned on he was getting. What was going on? “I…” he began, then stalled out. He wasn’t sure what this game was or how to play, though he desperately wished he did.  
  


Isabela picked up his slack easily, scoffing. “It takes more than a little spoiling to grow a gut like this, Hawke.” She gave his belly a solid poke. “What _does_ Fenris think of how fat you’ve grown? He left Kirkwall with the Champion, after all. Did he despair as he watched you swell bigger and bigger and _bigger_ and bigger? Does he like going to bed every night with a man so Maker-taken fat,” she stroked him, gently, hooking her finger into the deep gash of his belly button and giving him a shake, “that mountainsides could be named after him?”  
  


“Ouch, ‘Bela,” Hawke teased. “I may be a right druffalo now, but I still have feelings.”  
  


“You’ve got a lot more than feelings. You’ve got _layers_. And _folds_.” She stroked her hand along the curving dome of his gut, teasing her fingernails through dark hair. “And you love it, too. Imagine if everyone could see you now: the Champion of Kirkwall, prized hog and happy about it.”  
  


Fenris fought to swallow back a noise, unexpectedly flushed by Isabela’s cruel words. He reached out a tentative hand, hidden by Hawke’s sheer bulk, and squeezed a roll of flesh between his fingers.  
  


Hawke’s lashes fluttered, head tipping back as he melted into the caresses. He was practically purring at their attention—and how, _how_ had Fenris even for a moment thought that Hawke needed to be protected from the truth of his incredible gain? Obviously Hawke had known all along just hot fat he was getting…and he _loved it_. He wanted it.  
  


_Maybe_ , a part of Fenris whispers, _he wouldn’t mind being even fatter._  
  


As if she could read his mind, Isabela looked at Fenris over the expanse of his lover and said in a teasing purr: “You wouldn’t mind getting even bigger, would you? You wouldn’t mind if Fenris really did stuff you full of all sorts of terrible things—filling this big, fat gut of yours until it was ready to pop.”  
  


Hawke made a strangled noise at that, but Fenris was frozen in place, shocked by the suggestion—and the fierce wave of lust it inspired. Hawke came home so often already stuffed-full to the brim, letting Fenris take care of the natural after-effects of such intense over-eating. But what if Fenris was the one straddling his lap and pushing pastries into his eager mouth? What if Fenris was the one who was tipping Hawke’s head back and pouring fattening cream down his throat? What if Fenris was the one who was making him bigger, and bigger, until no war could ever take Hawke from him again?  
  


The idea was electrifying—and not just for him. The restless shift of Hawke’s hips proved he was just as into the idea.  
  


“Ah,” Hawke said; his voice was rough. “Teasing aside, I’m not sure Fenris would really be into something like that.”  
  


“Oh wouldn’t he?” Isabela countered.  
  


Fenris laid a hand on the crest of Hawke’s stomach, sliding down to rub softly at the pillowy fat gathered at the base. He was stuffed, but not so stuffed that there wasn’t room for more; all at once, Fenris wanted nothing more than to get his hands on some _pies_. “I would,” he said, low.  
  


Hawke turned his head to stare at him, eyes wide and dark. Isabela hummed and gave his belly a pat, rolling up onto her feet. “You see him to the bedroom, Fenris,” she said, sauntering into the kitchen. “I’ll bring you something good to eat, then get lost for a few hours. And maybe if I’m very good, I’ll wear out my welcome long enough that you two will let me play along sometime.” She glanced over her shoulder and winked. “I always did want to ruin a perfectly handsome warrior.”  
  


“Are you…sure you want to do this?” Hawke asked when Isabela was out of the room. He shifted awkwardly, settling his bulk so he could look at Fenris.  
  


Fenris felt his cheeks burning, but he stood, holding out his hands. It took considering strength to haul Hawke to his feet now, and the awkward way he shuffled in place as his big body settled made something burn in Fenris’s gut. “I can’t…talk the way she did,” he said, simply. “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t like it.”  
  


Hawke flushed. “I liked it too,” he admitted. Then he laughed. “Wow, we’re really kinky, Fen.”  
  


Fenris caught his lover’s hand and pulled him toward their bedroom. “Then let’s be kinky,” he said with a shrug. “So long as I am with you, it does not matter.”  
  


“You do say the sweetest things,” Isabela teased, slipping in behind them. She had a tray filed with things she had pilfered from the larder—one of the benefits of Hawke’s training was the many, many treats hidden about the place. (Which, Fenris had to wonder dryly, was probably why he was starting to get a little fat himself.) “Here you two are. Can I help finish unwrapping him?” She asked, then sighed at Fenris’s flat look. “Oh, very well. I’ll see you both later—hopefully with a little more meat on your bones,” she added with a wink, then darted off again.  
  


Hawke looked at Fenris, brows arching, then deliberately pulled off his top. “So,” he said slowly, tossing it aside. He reached for his waistband, and Fenris obligingly lifted that big gut so his lover could push his trousers and his smalls down fat thighs until he was completely naked. He stepped back, flesh wobbling enticingly as he crawled back onto the bed. “How do you want me?”  
  


“Like that,” Fenris said. He bit his lip and shucked his own clothes, briefly self-conscious of his own little belly pooching out. It felt weird now that he was aware of it—but also so very easy to ignore once he was focusing on Hawke again. There was really no feeling fat when Hawke was around. “I want you splayed out like that.”  
  


“What…ah…will you feed me first?” he asked. Hawke propped up against pillows, already mostly-full belly resting between his spread thighs. He gave it a tentative rub. “I’m _really_ hungry.”  
  


_Fuck_. He quickly moved to straddle Hawke’s wide hips, loving the strain it caused on his thighs. He reached over, snagging a slice of blueberry pie. It smeared bright blue in his hands, dribbling down his wrist, and Fenris turned his head to lick it away (shivering at Hawke’s low moan) before drawing it to his lover’s mouth.  
  


“Eat this,” he said, but Hawke was already taking the first bite. And the second. The third. He ate the pie right from Fenris’s hand, eyes locked with his the entire time. Bright blue was smeared across his lips and a little in his beard, messy enough to make Fenris smile past the excited lump in his throat. “Good,” he said, voice rough. “That is good.”  
  


“More, Fen,” Hawke said. He licked his lips, panting softly already. Sitting where he was—pressed snug against the warm heft of Hawke’s tubby belly—he could feel his lover’s erection insistent against his own. “Gotta feed me more. Gotta make me big and fat for you.”  
  


Fenris blindly snagged at the next treat, color rising hot on his cheeks. Those words were incendiary enough to have him subtly rocking forward. “I do not have much work ahead of me, then,” he said, urging the tart into Hawke’s eager mouth—pushing it in just a little to see how Hawke would react. The big warrior just grunted and moaned, chewing and swallowing faster, taking what Fenris forced on him. Maker. “You have already done a fine job yourself.”  
  


Taking Isabela’s words as inspiration, he added: “I remember when I could count your abs with my fingertips.” He dragged his fruit-sticky fingers over the dome of Hawke’s bulbous gut, riding out the arch of his hips. “Look at what you have done.”  
  


“I’ve gotten so _fat_ , Fenris,” Hawke moaned, sprawled back and staring up at Fenris with glassy eyes. The thick second chin was more than obvious now, ringing round cheeks. Muscles still clung to his biceps, but they were tempered by pillowy fat; Fenris wondered how many pies it would take before that muscle was gone, too. Before Hawke’s arms were as thick around as Fenris’s thighs, before they squished between his fingers soft as those glorious tits, as the ever-growing rolls at his sides.  
  


He sucked in a breath and shoved another tart into Hawke’s mouth at the thought, then another, then _another._ He barely gave his lover time to chew and swallow, taken with the idea that each fattening bite was adding to his girth, taking him one step closer to those soft arms. To _another_ chin. To tits he could lift and fondle and suck like breasts as Hawke lay spread across their bed in ever-softening supplication.  
  


_So fat_ , Fenris thought, kissing the heaving belly as he fed it to capacity and beyond, cramming treat after treat inside the already-inflated gut. _So big, so round, and mine forever_.  
  


He pressed his hips forward, grinding against Hawke’s massive cock—rubbing himself desperately against Hawke’s massive gut—sticky and panting and so damn close to release as he reached for the tray of sweets and realized with a burst of horror-and-elation that there was _one_ left. Hawke had eaten all the rest; they were rounding out his body even now, making him big enough to burst.  
  


“Eat this,” Fenris managed, shivering. He lifted the final sweet to Hawke’s smeared-filthy mouth, aware of how incredible tight his gut was—taut with too much food, already overburdened. “Eat this,” he repeated, meeting Hawke’s eyes over the curve of his own dissipated body, “and you will be so fat for me.”  
  


Hawke just huffed in a breath, another, one hand rubbing at the bowed-out side of his belly, trying to relieve the pressure. His cock pulsed where it was pressed against Fenris’s, both of them so keyed up it was a wonder they hadn’t yet orgasmed.  
  


He pursed his lips. “Make me,” he said, and opened his mouth in welcome.  
  


Fenris came—shuddering against the heft of his amazing bulk, riding out the shockwaves—and shoved the last bite into his lover’s waiting mouth.


	9. Chapter 9

Isabela sighed as she studied herself critically in the mirror.  
  
“Look at me,” she said, twisting this way and that to take in the damage from all sides. “I’ve bloody well become a porker, and it’s all your fault.” Her frowning reflection couldn’t seem to agree more. There was no denying the evidence of her own eyes: Maker, but she was getting fat.  
  
It wasn’t that she hadn’t been aware she’d been steadily piling on weight—it was easy enough for her to do; she liked to joke that her arse was like the sea, swelling and declining with every tide—but it wasn’t until she’d slipped out of the bed she’d been sharing with Hawke and Fenris for the last blissfully sexy few months and tried strapping herself back into the clothes she’d arrived in that she’d realized, well…  
  
Just how _bad_ it had gotten.  
  
Dressed in what had already started out as an indecently tight, indecently short white dress, there was no denying she had tipped over the line from _voluptuous_ and into the land of well and truly plump. Her breasts all but tumbled out the low neckline: it clung desperately to the heavy mounds, each breath threatening to expose flat brown nipples. That Isabela could deal with, but the gain hadn’t stopped there. Her hips stretched the seams so tight they practically creaked with every breath. The hemline had risen several inches thanks to the steady rounding of her arse, and a doughy little potbelly no amount of sucking in could hide pushed out the front until the dress she’d arrived in had turned into a skin-tight sheath that barely covered her nethers.  
  
Thick, dimpling thighs squashed together, and… Oh Adraste’s knickers, was that a second chin flashing at her when she frowned?  
  
Isabela dropped her hands to her pooch of a belly and gave it a squeeze, then sighed. Buttery soft, and jiggling beneath her fingers—she couldn’t even pretend she was still stuffed from the ridiculous meal they’d poured into Hawke’s gullet the night before. Damn it.  
  
“Wake up,” Isabela called over her shoulder as she wriggled out of the leather corset that had flat-out refused to close. Even open, it was a struggle to get the leather past her shoulders and down her arms without ripping out of her dress altogether: her breasts bounced and swayed into further near-indecency. A single _sneeze_ would have her exploding every seam. “I need you to help find me some clothes so I can get out of this honey trap while I can still walk.”  
  
There was softly muffled movement from where Fenris lay curled on his side next to Hawke’s slumbering form. He blinked open his eyes, sleepy and dazed and adorable enough that Isabela almost relented and crawled back into bed with them. It had been a very, _very_ good few months. It had only been a handful of nights past her initial arrival before Hawke and Fenris (who had both been her lovers, separately, once upon a time) had invited her into their big bed. And then all the fun and games had started in earnest. Athletic sex where Fenris gripped her (apparently ever-widening) hips and took her from behind as Hawke leaned against the headboard, stuffing his face and stroking himself as he watched. Languid sex where she rode a ridiculously round Hawke’s cock, tipped back into Fenris’s arms by the sheer girth of the once-Champion’s stuffed belly. Delirious sex where she pressed her fingers into Fenris’s arsehole and fondled his own rounding gut as Hawke leaned back and let the elf fuck his ever-hungry mouth.  
  
The swirl of heated images had her nipples pebbling and her (plump) thighs pressing together, made all the worse when Fenris yawned and silently held out a hand for her.  
  
The motion pushed down the blanket just enough to expose the soft valleys and curves of what had once been all lean muscle, and _Maker_ but it had been fun subtly encouraging that adorable belly to grow even as Fenris’s attention was caught solely on rounding out his big bear of a lover.  
  
 _Part of that is my fault_ , she thought, eyes dragging down swirls of lyrium over padded dark flesh. His belly was much bigger than hers, softer, even if his thighs and tits were nowhere near as lush. Not quite fat, but not far from it, either…and my it was terribly tempting to stick around long enough to urge him over to the other side.  
  
A truly fat elf; how wonderful that would be to see. And Fenris _did_ seem to get more content the softer he became… If she truly loved her friend, she had a duty to see him happy, didn’t she?  
  
She took a hesitant step forward, dress creaking audibly with the movement. Then another. Fenris pushed the covers fully back and inched closer into the gravitational pull of Hawke’s gravid form, making room for her on the bed. Isabela watched as that adorable potbelly jiggled and dragged with the motion—still pooched out far enough from the night’s stuffing to have some real heft to it. Just ten pounds more, she thought, maybe fifteen, and it’d rest in his lap when he sat. Ten to fifteen pounds wasn’t _so_ very difficult, the way those two ate. And if she was careful herself…  
  
“Oh, bollocks,” Isabela decided, and scurried to hop into the bed with a cackling laugh. Fenris caught her around the waist—fingers digging into her sides—and actually smiled up at her as she threw a plump thigh across his hips. He seemed to be smiling more and more the bigger he got, as if watching Hawke blimp out had somehow rewired his brain so that _fat_ meant _happy_.  
  
Anyway, it looked good on him: the smile _and_ the fat.  
  
“I’ll have you know,” Isabela said, leaning down to press a soft kiss to even softer skin, “that you and Hawke are bad influences. Look at me.”  
  
“I am looking,” he said, voice husky. His hands traveled to cup her wide arse.  
  
Isabela pouted down at Fenris. “I am barely dressed,” she said—meaning, of course, _I’ve gotten so void-taken fat I_ can’t _get dressed._ Not in the clothes she’d arrived in anyway.  
  
Fenris’s smile just widened. “I can help you with that,” he said, his cupping, squeezing hands traveling across her hips, her love handles, her stomach, all the way to where her breasts threatened to pop free at any moment. It was a miracle she was still wearing a stitch of clothing, and each breath came with a threatening _creak_ of fabric.  
  
“Only if you let me watch,” a low, husky voice rumbled, and the two of them glanced over with matching hot smiles to where Hawke was awake and blinking sleepily over at them.  
  
He was a dark mountain under the bulk of the blanket—lying on his back with his prize-winning belly rising big and round over him. Now _that_ was another reason to stick around a few weeks longer. Isabela and Fenris had devoted themselves to trying to find the Champion-turned-baker’s natural limits, but so far, it seemed Hawke was a true bottomless pit. The more they stuffed into his hungry maw, the more bloated his ridiculous boulder of a belly became, until he was all but pinned beneath it. And yet he _still_ was eager for more.  
  
Could she really leave before she’d found the limit to him?  
  
“I did not think you would wake until noon,” Fenris said, twisting just enough beneath Isabela to press a kiss to one meaty arm. “Last night was…a lot.”  
  
“Last night was hot as the pits themselves,” Isabela added with a flashing grin. “How are you feeling this morning, tubby?”  
  
Hawke’s laugh was low and rich as the chocolate they’d pushed into his waiting mouth. “Like I swallowed a whole Bone Pit of rocks,” he said—then wriggled his hips experimentally, the huge bed protesting with the movement and his prodigious ball of a belly swaying like a skiff on the sea. He pressed an elbow into the mattress, and Isabela pulled back so she and Fenris could sit and watch as their truly _fat_ lover tried to hoist himself over onto his side to face them. His round gut bobbed beneath the blanket, and his thick chin doubled and _more_ , fat cheeks and neck pressed together beneath dark hair until his whole head was roundly cherubic.  
  
His skin was flushed red. His breath began to come in stuttered pants. He was actually _trying_ , Isabela realized with a start, using his once-prodigious muscles to fight gravity and hoist his still-massively-over-stuffed gut onto its side…but despite a promising start or two, his hips remained locked where they were, his thighs spread wide to accommodate the sheer bulk of him. Trapped by his own gravid weight.  
  
Hawke finally collapsed back with a huffing breath, his furred tits heaving. They were dragged down by gravity, too, big and juicy and covered with visible bite marks. Isabela’s mouth all but watered at the sight, and Maker, but she was wet. Wetter still when Fenris rose up onto his knees and pulled the blanket off Hawke’s bloated form, revealing their night’s handiwork to the mid-morning sunlight.  
  
The man who had once been all trained muscle and sinew was now truly obese. Fat in a way that suggested he was settling in to get fatter still, every inch of him padded three times over. His muscular arms were beefy, his chest was stollen into breasts she could easily cup in her hands, his face was round and his legs were as thick as _her_ waist had once been. But of course, the crowning glory—the greatest achievement—was that _belly_ rising boulder-large over him. Empty (not that it ever was), it was big and round as any holiday patron’s. Furred with dark hair and folding into waves upon waves of love handles at his sides. Jiggly enough at a slap, but always with some heft to it, as if the fat had gathered and solidified there with what remained of his muscular physique.  
  
But _stuffed_ , Hawke was a masterpiece of gluttony. His belly could become truly massive, bloating up like a filling waterskin until it strained hard and tight above his body. His stretch-marked skin became shiny with strain, his flesh pulled taut, and there were times when Fenris fretted that Hawke might pop…but of course, he didn’t. He never even reached his limit before they had to give up in exhaustion.  
  
Nights like those—nights like last night—left a lasting impression on Hawke’s body. It took hours and hours for the feast to digest and his belly to deflate into his normal fat but manageable roundness. In those hours he was stuck in an in-between stage: soft and hard in all the best places, gut swollen up but gentling a bit at the edges. A little deliciously helpless beneath its heft.  
  
It was incredible seeing the famous warrior this astonishingly changed: belly cradled between fat thighs, hanging low enough to cover his privates. Hawke’s round cheeks were red, but he was grinning slyly too, embarrassed but aware that his inability to flip over onto his side was turning them both on something fierce. “I think,” he said, reaching up to give his belly a solid pat, “I may need you to roll me over. It looks like I’ve gone and gotten too fat to move.”  
  
Fenris gave a little growl and moved to settle between Hawke’s thighs. He gripped the wide curved edges of Hawke’s big belly and gave it a squeeze, fingers digging almost-roughly into flesh before giving the whole thing a deliberate wobble. Isabela watched, fascinated, as Fenris pressed forward—his own soft gut smushing against Hawke’s, the fat spreading and malleable where Hawke’s was not.  
  
He _had_ to know what a little butterball he was becoming—right?  
  
“Look at you,” Fenris murmured, pushing forward again—pushing Hawke’s belly up to expose a flash of his hardening cock before letting it settle back with a thud. “ _Look._ Could you even stand right now?”  
  
Hawke gave a moan, semi-theatrical but no less felt for all that. His eyes were sparkling with amusement and arousal: this was a familiar game for all three of them by now. “You know I couldn’t,” he said, low. “You know the two of you stuffed me to the gills last night; you made me so fat I can’t even haul myself out of bed.”  
  
“You have to be _rolled over_ ,” Isabela added, letting her thighs spread against the mattress where she knelt. “What a massive pig you are, Hawke.”  
  
Hawke licked his lips, rocking up into Fenris’s grip. “Maker, you’re right,” he faux-lamented. “I’ve become such a pig; such a fat druffalo. How’d you let this happen to me, Fenris?”  
  
“ _Let_ it?” Fenris countered with a scoff. He’d been getting better and better at this sort of game over the weeks until he was a near-master—looking down his nose at Hawke’s big, flabby body as if every overflowing inch didn’t desperately turn him on. “There was nothing I could do to stop you. Sometimes I swear you’ve been possessed by Gluttony itself.”  
  
 _That_ was a game they played sometimes, too, Hawke pretending to be imbued with a spirit that made him eat and eat and eat and eat one sloppy fist-full after another. Practically falling face-first into his meal with an exuberance that was as thrilling as it was forbidden; if the Chantry found out…  
  
Well, that was part of the fun of it, wasn’t it? Knowing they could have fun with these taboo topics and never be found out. (Isabela liked to take her turn as Desire now and again, too—fondling her own breasts and trying to tempt the boys into sin.)  
  
Hawke dropped his hands over where Fenris was gripping the widest parts of his belly and gave him a little squeeze. Together they pushed up the heavy boulder of his gut again, holding it up long enough for Fenris to press forward, belly to belly, plush to plush, braced against the heavy weight of Hawke’s belly as they let go again.  
  
Fenris actually grunted with the effort of holding strong against all that weight rolling forward against him, and bloody void, but it was a sight to see the two wonderfully fat lovers enjoying their own bodies so thoroughly.  
  
But also…it would be even more wonderful if they’d pay a little attention to _her_ as well.  
  
Isabela rested her full weight on her knees, letting her thighs slowly spread wider and wider across the mattress. The dress creaked and protested as it rode up her thighs and arse, seams beginning to slowly unravel. It was loud enough (underscored by her own throaty gasp) that two pairs of hungry eyes found her at last.  
  
 _That’s right, boys. Not everything worth worshipping around here comes bearing a cock._  
  
Even though she wasn’t exactly thrilled with the current swollen plumpness of her body, some wild instinct had her sucking in a deep breath and rounding out her own growing potbelly at just the right moment. It swelled and swelled into a mimicry of pregnancy, making her feel ridiculously gravid. The straining dress couldn’t handle the extra heft: it shredded somewhere at one plump side, soft flesh spilling out of the half-crescents made there. But more importantly, the low-cut front gave up the ghost, and her heavy breasts came tumbling out with the violence of the moment—bouncing and bare and overflowing any attempt to keep them contained.  
  
Fenris and Hawke gave near-indistinguishable hisses of approval, and Fenris began to move toward her—unpinning himself and letting Hawke’s gut settle huge and gravid between his own splayed thighs.  
  
“Wait—Fen,” Hawke protested, struggling to push himself up onto his forearms again. His hips twitched as he valiantly tried to hoist himself over, that great big round ball of belly swaying comically over him. The mattress dipped and creaked, and he swore, but he couldn’t seem to lever his own bloated weight onto his side. “I want to—see.”  
  
Isabela gave a throaty laugh, arching her back in welcome as Fenris took two greedy handfuls of her breasts. They overflowed his grip, flesh spilling between his fingers as he gave a strong squeeze; the sword-calloused ridges of his palms scraped deliciously against pebbled-tight nipples. “What’s the matter, Champion?” she taunted, deliberately letting her thighs spread wider. She hadn’t bothered with smallclothes (why put up the fuss?), and with her too-tight dress hiked up around her plush hips, she felt open and exposed and powerful. Not to mention dripping wet. “Don’t— _oh_ —don’t tell me you managed to defeat the Arishok only to be beaten into submission by your own gluttony.”  
  
Fenris cast one heated glance back toward his struggling lover, dark green eyes sparkling. He leaned in even as he hoisted her breasts together, tongue darting out to lick a wet stripe up the deepened cleavage.  
  
Hawke moaned and let himself rock back into place again, defeated, both hands framing his own massive furred gut. “This hardly seems fair,” he groused playfully.  
  
“Fair is for children, tubby,” Isabela purred, hands sliding across Fenris’s shoulders so she could dig her nails into his back. He was busily mouthing at her breasts, dragging his teeth along one nipple and then the other—making humming noises of pleasure designed, she was certain, as a deliberate tease. She and Fenris may have enjoyed each other plenty of times over these past few months—and longer, before that, in their shared past—but there was no denying who the two of them were really here for.  
  
They just had to make him suffer a little first; that always made the end game _better_.  
  
Fenris slipped a hand down, deliberately cupping her pooched-out belly and giving it an admiring squeeze. He hooked the tip of his thumb into the ever-deepening divot of her belly button and gave the softly malleable fat a definite jiggle.  
  
Isabela’s eyes narrowed— _that_ wasn’t part of the game. She wasn’t supposed to get round herself. _It really is time to hit the road,_ she thought, subtly-not-subtly reaching down to pinch a hefty inch of lyrium-decorated love-handle in retaliation. _…once I see how Fenris looks when he tips over that edge._ Maker, he was already so plush; it would hardly take any time at all before she got to see (and bed) herself a true, undeniably fat elf.  
  
She hummed and ignored the way he fondled her widening hips, letting herself get lost in the delicious images that sprang to mind. Herself (a good deal more svelte in her imagination) cradled between her two former warriors gone to wicked seed: Hawke round as a boulder and almost hard to the touch, facing her as his massive gut herded her back into the buttery softness of Fenris. His fat arms around her waist, his fat thighs lifting her own. His soft tits pressed against her back as he nudged her up higher, higher, her own thighs spread _wide_ around Hawke’s bulbous shape—laying sprawled in Fenris’s plush arms and rubbing herself wickedly against the outer swell of their shared lover’s belly, absolutely loving every minute of it.  
  
The ridiculous idea had her gasping in a sharp breath and writhing up just as Fenris hooked clever fingers inside her body—thrusting past the heat of her and dragging against the swell of her clit.  
  
Hawke gave another broken noise. “I can’t see anything past your backside, love,” he protested to Fenris. “You’re blocking ‘Bela from view.”  
  
 _That’s because he’s twice my width and counting_ , she thought gleefully…even if that wasn’t quite the truth. Still, it was a nice image, which was the only reason she leaned in to catch Fenris’s mouth in a long, languid kiss before whispering: “Maybe we should roll him over and give him a taste of his own?”  
  
Fenris had clearly been waiting for just such a suggestion. He pulled back with an immediacy that would have been insulting if she hadn’t shared it, turning back to the true center of their attention and affection. Hawke’s easy smile indicated he’d known this was coming all along, and he opened his arms in welcome as Fenris dove back in for a possessive kiss.  
  
Hungry. Maker, they were so hungry for each other. It was hot as sin to watch the near-desperate interplay of tongues and teeth, and void but she was going to miss it when she sailed off into the sunset again.  
  
But that was for another day. Today, now, Isabela shimmied out of the ripped too-tight dress and flung it aside, letting the cool morning air kiss her naked flesh. She crawled up toward the head of the bed, nudging various pillows into place even as Fenris devoured his lover whole—hands mapping sun-bronzed skin restlessly, palms rasping over chest hair, fingers digging into flesh.  
  
Hawke made a low noise into Fenris’s mouth seconds before the other man finally pulled away, his lips swollen and wet. They were both panting, eyes only for each other. Fenris barely flicked his gaze away when Isabela dropped a wide, sturdy cushion midway down the mattress.  
  
“Are you ready?” he murmured, voice liquid silk.  
  
Hawke nodded, reaching out his hands. “More than,” he promised. “Maker, I’m so hard for you.”  
  
Fenris hissed a breath and caught one of his lover’s hands, grip digging into the fleshy muscle of his bicep. Isabela wriggled around—slipping out of the bed to hurry around to Hawke’s other side. She crawled up onto the mattress again, onto her knees, and deliberately shuffled close enough that the rounded curve of him spilled over her thighs.  
  
“Are _you_ ready?” Fenris asked her.  
  
She flashed a wicked grin. “If we don’t manage to break the bed this time, I will be shocked.”  
  
He gave a sharp laugh and nodded once, then _hoisted_. At the same moment, Isabela gripped the curve of Hawke’s hip and side and _pushed_ , putting her back into it.  
  
For one startling moment, she thought they wouldn’t manage. Hawke’s over-stuffed form seemed to resist being moved, as if he’d grown so fat overnight that he’d settled like a rock into the earth. But after a few puffing seconds he began to shift, and then move, and then _roll_ with their combined strength—slowly tipping up and over until the weight of his own gut began to drag him rapidly into his new gravitational pull.  
  
It was easy enough sailing then. Once his wide belly began to arc downward, all they had to do was let momentum carry their fat lover the rest of the way. The carefully positioned pillow was quickly shoved into better position as Hawke hit his side and kept rolling—up, this time, and onto his stuffed gut. It would be too much pressure all on its own, but the pillows and cushioned wedged at his hips and tits and head let him settle breathless into a comfortable position at the very center of the bed: sprawled on his ball of a gut, hips lifted and thighs spread, gorgeous tits dangling and head comfortably elevated.  
  
Fenris took a moment to double-check the pillows keeping Hawke’s head aloft and his spine comfortably alined, his hands caressing round, bearded cheeks before sliding down the curve of his spine to squeeze his massive, exposed arse.  
  
Hawke looked even more helpless like this. He was stuffed so full, still, that his stomach squashed against the mattress almost before his knees could hit. It wouldn’t take _that_ much longer, Isabela realized, before he could kneel on hands and knees and have his empty belly brushing the ground beneath him. The idea was intoxicating, and she darted down to press a kiss to one meaty shoulder, her fingers seeking out a softly hanging tit and giving it a squeeze.  
  
It filled her palm to near overflowing.  
  
“Andraste’s knickers, Hawke, but you’ve got bigger breasts than Aveline ever dreamed of,” she cackled, sliding her thumb across the nipple playfully.  
  
“Well, I’ve—always been jealous of—your overflowing corsets, ‘Bela,” Hawke teased back, breath coming in rough pants from the exertion of _being rolled over_.  
  
She snorted, giving one more hard squeeze. “As if you could fit that fat gut inside a corset,” she taunted, then glanced up to watch as Fenris moved behind his lover. His hands gripped at Hawke’s wide hips, and his own belly squished soft against that big old rump as he thrust once against the warrior’s exposed backside.  
  
Hawke’s eyelids fluttered closed and he moaned, rocking forward into the handy pillow. _Friction_. His body swayed with the movement, all of him trembling—only to jerk forward again, then again, when Fenris continued pushing his hips up against him.  
  
“Maker, Fen,” he choked, voice strained. “I want you to fuck me. Will you please mount me, fuck me? Take me just as hard as you can.”  
  
Fenris made a low noise that could have been a growl or assent. He pulled away and off the bed, though not far—they never left any of their toys very far out of reach. “If I am able to,” he said as he slithered back into bed, already thumbing over the jar of lubricant. “Someday soon you will be so fat I can no longer fit past your thick arse.”  
  
 _No, love_ , Isabela thought gleefully as Fenris set about to preparing their enthusiastically moaning lover. _It’ll be your own delightful belly in the way._ She watched, eagle-eyed and already reaching one hand down to caress herself, as Fenris made short work of getting Hawke ready. He set aside the jar and—oh yes—had to pause a moment to _lift his own stomach_ enough to really line up right. It rested against Hawke’s massive rear, soft and malleable and so adorably plump. Flushing dark as he thrust slowly inside, his back arched back to get the only angle that would let them fit together.  
  
She bit her bottom lip, fingers slipping deep inside herself as she watched. Ten or fifteen pounds. Twenty at most. And then her adorable elven butterball would need to kneel on a cushion of his own to get the leverage he needed past his own plush belly.  
  
Isabela was so lost in the fantasy of that (of Fenris huffing and panting as he physically lifted his belly up to plop it on top of Hawke’s rear) that the hand brushing her thigh startled a cry out of her. She looked down, meeting Hawke’s widely dilated eyes. His round face was flushed and he was grunting and panting with each of Fenris’s thrusts—sweat beaded heavily on his brow.  
  
“I’m hungry,” he murmured, voice thick and faux-petulant—then he gave her thigh a little tug.  
  
She instantly melted, moving gracefully until her back hit the headboard. “Well, then I’d better feed your greedy face,” she murmured. Isabela lifted her hands to cup her own hanging breasts, holding them in place as she swung one thigh over Hawke and settled onto the pillows at his head. It only took a little bit of wriggling to get the right position—her back pressed flush against the headboard, her hips canted forward, her eyes meeting Fenris’s across the wide valley of their fattened lover.  
  
And then Hawke was licking inside of her, tongue thrusting in tempo with each of Fenris’s thrusts, and _this_ —this was the reason she was going to stay another few weeks, even if it meant she’d have to be rolled out of here too. Not just to see Hawke’s belly swell until it pushed past his knees, and not just to see Fenris plump up into true fatness, but to experience this feeling: lightning trails of pleasure as Hawke greedily fed from her body, his own form rocking wildly with each thrust as Fenris picked up the speed.  
  
The three of them a greedy, gluttonous feedback loop of desire and hunger and satiation: growing fat off the joy that came from letting the hardship of the past go and enjoying the hell out of each and every simple pleasure that came their way.The three of them a greedy, glutenous feedback loop of desire and hunger and satiation: growing fat off the joy that came from letting the hardship of the past go and enjoying the hell out of each and every simple pleasure that came their way.


	10. Chapter 10

It took a few weeks to settle back into their lives after Isabela finally left them.

That had been a long time coming on its own. She kept claiming she was going to take the next tide out (never mind that they were landlocked here) and then kept deciding at the last moment that she was going to stay “just a little longer…to keep an eye on you boys” before burrowing in close and pinching at rounded flesh. Cackling laughter turned to purring kisses, and grabbing hands turned to caresses, and inevitably the three of them would end in a delicious tangle of limbs and sweat and panting breaths.

Days turned to weeks and weeks to months and eventually it had begun to feel as if she’d always been with them. As if she’d always be with them. …until she’d finally snapped “I have to leave you boys while I can still walk” and squeezed herself into her clothes for good.

Ah well, Hawke thought, yawning and scratching idly at his hairy belly as he swung one thick thigh over the edge of the bed. The wooden frame creaked in its near-constant warning. There’s no tying a pirate down. And he had a suspicion that she’d be back before too long, drawn to their gravitational pull the way she always was.

And speaking of gravitational pulls… He gave a stuttering chuckle as he slid his other leg down and felt the heavy shift of his gut swinging forward and out. It slapped against one thigh, spilling nearly to the knee: a dragging weight that was both alarming and reassuring every time Hawke heaved himself out of bed.

Even when he wasn’t ridiculously over-stuffed, it was hard work getting himself up and ready every day. That was going to be a problem sooner or later, especially now that it was just him and Fenris. Both of them were strong—warriors, even though no one would know it to look at them now—but at some point, Hawke’s sheer mass would win the day no matter what they did. And then what? He’d become the first completely bed-ridden baker in Thedas? He’d take to icing cinnamon rolls as the tray balanced precariously on the wide dome of his gut?

“Some kind of Champion I’d be then,” he muttered to himself even as he gave his (rather massive, really) belly a good-natured rub. It sat cradled between fat thighs, pushing them apart with its impressive heft. The rounded bottom actually spilled over the edge of the mattress, and he could feel its weight trying to pull him forward—forward and down, if he wasn’t careful. “All right, you,” Hawke said with a final pat, “behave.”

His stomach growled as if in response, and all Hawke could do was laugh even as he grabbed for the sturdy edge of the headboard and began the process of hauling his fat ass up to start the day. He had to lean back to manage it, going belly-up-and-forward. Soft flesh slapped against his thighs as that prodigious gut swayed, then settled; his tits swung back and his whole frame jiggled with the movement. He grunted once—deep—and spread his legs wider to establish his balance as the whole mountain of him slowly straightened into standing: naked and wide and darkly haired, round as a druffalo preparing to birth a whole litter of pups.

Maker but he’d gotten fat.

Hawke let out a breath, embarrassed-and-titillated by how, well, out of breath he was just from climbing out of his own bed. His cheeks felt hot and the skin of his chest and tits were a blotchy red. He shuffled once in place to help the hanging folds and rolls of flesh to settle, his lower belly swaying like a pendulum at the movement.

All right: step one, get up, accomplished. Now for step two: get dressed all on his own.

There were no footsteps as Fenris came to help him (as he so often did), so that must mean his lover was already out and about—likely at the bakery, helping get set up for the early day. A glance out the window showed it was just after sunrise, so Hawke’d have to get a move on if he didn’t want to leave everyone in the lurch. He sighed and shambled his way over to the simple wardrobe he and Fenris shared, the wide waddle of his gait making the furniture subtly rattle.

He’d taken to wearing robes despite never having the magic of his father or sister, simply because it was much easier than hauling on trousers every day. (And because, to be honest, he’d split enough seats and burst enough buttons to last a lifetime by now. Tight shirts and trousers were reserved for bedroom play only; whenever he wanted to actually be able to work, it was tent-like cloth stretched over his round form and a supple belt cupping under the widest part of him to keep it all decent.) There were three that still fit him well enough…though as Hawke hauled on the deep blue robe and squeezed the worn fabric across his hips and arse, he had to acknowledge to himself that fit wasn’t quite the word he would use anyway. Bloody void, but he must have grown another couple of inches for everything to want to suck to his body like this—either that or Fenris had taken to sneaking out of bed at night and hemming his lovers’ clothes smaller just to see him nearly bursting out of them.

“Admit it, Champion,” Hawke muttered to himself, turning to catch full sight of himself in the mirror. “You really are a right porker now.” From this angle, he was all belly—huge and round and jutting high with a subtle firmness that never fully went away. The bottommost swing of his gut hung in a layer of squishy flesh, but the rest seemed determined to push out in an improbable ball: like he’d swallowed part of a mountain and hadn’t yet managed to digest it all.

With the blue fabric stretched to creaking over the high, wide dome of his belly, and the looping belt cupping that lower sway like a pully, he looked cartoonishly fat—and that was even before he took in the ham-hock big fat-and-muscle arms and the bearded half-moon of a solidly deep second chin. Both hands cupping the wide outer curve of him, Hawke had a moment of double vision: the man he was back in Kirkwall, all bulging muscle and sinew, and the man he was now. So improbably fat he was sure none of his friends would even recognize him anymore…and so improbably content he almost felt like laughing at the mere idea.

He wasn’t the Champion of anything but pies anymore, and Maker, but that felt good.

“Let’s get you on the road,” Hawke added, giving his belly a fond pat. Like it was its own separate entity—a third member of their family. He supposed in a way it was. It certainly had a mind of its own sometimes, the outer edge of it bumping up against the mirror and nearly sending it toppling as Hawke turned.

That was its own constant problem, in fact. He’d gotten so huge so quickly, he still wasn’t entirely certain of his own size. Hawke waddled back across the room and had an awkward moment when his hips brushed too-hard in the doorway. His arse knocked against the kitchen table as he passed, skidding it a few inches across the floor. And when he stepped out through the main door, there was that now-familiar heart-stopping moment when he felt resistant. It had been happening for awhile now, the door squeezing in on him when he tried to pass, but this morning was a thousand times worse. With a jerk and a huffing breath, Hawke pulled against what was usually only a momentary resistance and realized in sinking horror that he was actually stuck. Stuck! Stuck in his own front door, the narrower wooden frame gripping and holding his hips like a rough lover, squeezing the soft rolls as he was lurched to a sudden stop.

Hawke swore and looked down and around, straining to get a better view of what was happening. His whole front jerked and swayed violently, the weight of his belly trying to tip him forward off his feet as the momentum caught him off-guard. He grabbed for the doorframe, feeling its wood squeezing against his sides, vise-like. His gut bobbled and swayed in front of him like a dowser’s rod, and, well, fuck: he was officially too fat to leave his own bloody house.

“This…would…be,” Hawke muttered under his breath, panting and swearing as he tried to squirm his way free. His whole big frame felt like the ocean: everything swelled and swayed with the jerky movements. “Hot…if it…weren’t…so bloody…embarrassing.” The belt that had been looped to help hoist up the bottom droop of his belly tightened as its leather got wedged between wood and flesh, and Hawke held his breath for a moment before POP it came snapping open, letting him spill ever-more-forward. The seams of his robe creaked in protest and his breasts bounced merrily. If Fenris were here, loving hands would grip and cup and squeeze before gently helping him pry himself free amidst heated kisses. He’d probably stroke his tongue (sugar-tinged from early morning work at the bakery; Fenris had a sweet tooth now that nearly rivaled Hawke’s) into Hawke’s mouth as he pushed him back, and back, and back again—easing him past the too-narrow wood that entrapped him until Hawke rocketed back like a wine cork, finally freed.

But he was too big to keep on his feet gracefully now, and the momentum would send him toppling onto his wide rear, Fenris following him down to the floor—straddling his mammoth belly, kiss gone wild as hands roughly fondled and hefted and squeezed and admired every too-bloody-fat inch of him. Teeth grazing plush skin as he whispered filth about how big Hawke was, how absolutely untenably fat, how he couldn’t even make it out of his own home and Andraste’s knickers what would all of Kirkwall say if they saw their brave warrior now?

Moaning quietly at the image—at the hot-mortifying situation he literally found himself stuck in—Hawke squirmed helplessly within the doorframe against a rush of heat and wondered, breathlessly, whether he’d be stuck here all morning…until Fenris came home to see what was taking so long. Until Fenris found him here. Until Fenris mapped his bulging flesh with eager hands and pressed against his rounded body and whispered hot in his ear, “Just look at you now.”

**

Fenris sometimes forgot he was getting fat.

It was simple enough to do. Other than the lyrium painting his skin, he’d never much paid attention to his own body. It was lean because most elves tended toward lean, and it was honed as a blade because he spent so much of his life running or fighting. He cared about his flesh only because his lover seemed to like it, and that was truly all that really entered his head. Vanity was never one of his particular sins.

Besides, it was impossible to think of much of anything when Hawke was around.

So it took him awhile to notice the pounds creeping onto his frame. To be aware of the softening of that honed edge, the loss of that elven leanness. And even when he noticed the way Hawke or Isabella cupped his gradually growing gut and gave it a deliberate wobble, he put it out of his head as unimportant. There were always more lush delights to sink into, more weighty matters to admire. And even though logically he knew somewhere along the way he had rounded past chubby to plump to the first blurred edges of fat, he didn’t really think about it until he was slapped in the face with the evidence of how much his own body transformed.

Like now, straining apron dusted with flour, grasping hands still holding dough, as Varric Tethras and some dark-haired woman he didn’t recognize stood at the entrance to the bakery’s small kitchen and stared.

He’d been humming to himself as he prepared the early dough, keeping half an ear open for Hawke’s heavy step. As Hawke had gotten bigger, it had gotten more expedient to slip out of bed early and see to getting the bakery ready for the day on his own. Hawke simply took too much time now to hoist from home to town and back again—if they wanted to make sure they had breads and buns ready to go for the daily rush, it was up to Fenris to get the process started. Hawke would sweep in not too long after and take over the more complicated pieces with a kiss that always lingered, and the two of them would orbit each other as they made the most of their new profession: happy and fat bakers in a small, forgotten Ferelden town.

“Fenris?”

Varric’s question came out as a wheeze, like he could barely cough up the sound he was so shocked. His eyes were wide as they swept over the scene—swept over Fenris—and with each second that passed, Fenris could all but feel the weight of his own body settling over him again, as if he were fattening up like rising dough right there, his awareness of his flesh reasserting itself in a rush of shock.

He curled his fingers tight into the dough, and couldn’t help but think his own body was just as malleable now. What had been a small potbelly had bloomed into a gut and now was a buttery soft belly that jiggled and shook every time he moved. Unlike Hawke, his muscles had melted away into pure butterball flesh that hung in front of him in a soft pooch—belly spilling over the tied ends of his apron, budded breasts hanging against the upper roll, his bare arms a squish of lyrium-lined fat.

That had to be what Varric and the mystery woman saw as they stared at him, Fenris realized with a strange twist in his belly. Just folds and swells of softness, pouring out into a pear shape as round thighs and a plush arse strained against too-tight leggings, every inch of him given over to malleable fat.

Venhedis.

“This,” the woman said, Nevvaran accent strong, “is Fenris?” She sounded dubious; Fenris couldn’t blame her.

“I…could almost swear to it,” Varric muttered before shaking himself out of his shock. He stepped forward, trying to smile, though his gaze kept sweeping over Fenris again and again as if he wasn’t sure he could believe what he was seeing. “Fenris! You look…good.”

Fenris grunted and let the dough he’d been kneading fall. He turned, wiping his fingers on the front of his apron…which of course drew Varric’s gaze down to the swell of his soft soft soft belly. Damn it. “Varric,” Fenris said, voice clipped. He could feel himself tensing up the longer those two stared. “We were not expecting you.”

“Sorry I didn’t write,” Varric replied quickly. “But I was kidnapped by the Seeker and didn’t have much choice.”

“He lies,” the Seeker snapped, moving sharply forward. She stopped before him, blazing eyes meeting his. “Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast. It is an honor to meet you, Fenris: I have heard a great deal about you.”

Varric cleared his throat. “Though clearly there are some pieces from the story I was missing,” he said. And Fenris could have sworn he heard, under Varric’s breath: “About a hundred pounds worth of them, I’d wager.”

Fenris found himself trying (and failing) to suck in his gut. He felt terribly big and unwieldy standing there next to Varric and this warrior woman, Cassandra. The warmth where his belly only just rested against his thighs was like a burning coal now that both of them were taking him in, judging him. Mentally marveling over what the void had happened to make him so bloody plush. “Why are you here?” he asked, pushing past the mounting mortification. It burned low in his gut in an almost sexual frisson.

“Seeker Cassandra here wouldn’t rest until she met Hawke,” Varric said after clearing his throat again. Fenris was very aware of the way his whole body swayed when he shifted his weight back and forth. “I tried running her a merry chase, but she saw through the bullshit with depressing ease.”

“The Champion is needed,” Cassandra said. “Now more than ever.”

You can’t have him. The acid words were almost on his tongue—he could feel the immediate protective rage rising inside of him—but Fenris bit them back. He could already tell this woman was a pillar of iron will, and while his own stubbornness could meet hers head-on, he’d relaxed enough over his life here to know there were other, better ways than an outright assault to get what he wanted. “What is he needed for?” Fenris asked instead, beginning to unknot the apron ties and pull it off. Some defiant part of him had him draw his breath and actually push out his own gut as he set the apron aside, aware of Varric’s shocked eyes on the way the buttons of his trousers strained. His belly was pooched over the waistband, ends of his shirt nearly coming untucked; there was a deep roll of fat at his sides that spilled forward into a muffin, and when he let his body relax just so, it all seemed to swell.

Yes, stare, Fenris thought, narrowing his eyes on both of them even as he deliberately crossed his arms over his belly, squishing his breasts and letting the fat roundness of his arms spread out wide. Take all of me in. If they came here thinking they’d find two warriors ready to throw their lives away for the good of Thedas-kind again, they were sorely mistaken.

“I…need to discuss that with the Champion himself,” Cassandra said, getting visibly flustered as she faced down what had to be the fattest elf she’d ever met.

Discuss that with the Champion. Beg him to put on his armor and take up his sword again, more like. But if Cassandra and Varric were here to ask their fierce, fit Champion to risk his life again for the whole world—after everything Hawke had already been through—then they were in for another shock of their lives. Because Fenris hadn’t meant to get so bloody soft himself, but he’d sure as the void meant for Hawke to get fat. Fatter. So big and round and blimped out there’d be no more wars for him ever again. No more near-deaths at the hands of the Arishok. No more desperate battles with women like Meredith.

Just bucolic peace and a belly that still hadn’t found its end.

“Then you’d better come with me,” Fenris decided, uncrossing his arms as he pushed past them. He hip-checked Cassandra just a little, telling himself it wasn’t completely on purpose as he led the way out of the bakery. He turned the little sign to indicate it was closed for the day and waited for Varric and Cassandra to come join him out front, where three horses were waiting. His own was a trusty draft horse, well-used to carrying heavy weights. (Though Hawke, of course, used a cart when he came to and from town.) Their horses looked like fierce beasts in comparison, and the dissonance made Fenris snort quietly to himself as they mounted up. They’d come expecting to find Fenris and Hawke just like these muscled warhorses. They were in for the shock of their lives. “This way.”

He turned his horse down the lane that would eventually lead to home and clicked his tongue. The three of them took off at a slow but steady pace, Varric maneuvering up to ride alongside him.

The quick glances Varric kept casting him were painfully obvious, even if his old friend was trying to be circumspect. Each look made Fenris increasingly aware of the way his tummy bounced with each of his horse’s steps…the way his round arse overflowed the saddle.

Fenris looked over, catching one of those discrete stares, and arched his brows. Varric immediately cleared his throat. “So,” he said, going for a warm smile. “You’re a baker now. Can’t say I ever imagined that—and I’ve got a pretty good imagination, Broody.”

“I’m a baker now,” Fenris agreed easily. “But less Broody now than before.”

Varric tilted his head. “That so?” he said—but immediately added, “No, yeah, you’re right: I can see it. You and Hawke are happy here, then?”

“More than I ever thought possible.” Fenris’s voice sounded a little rough even to his own ears. “We settled in well. This is home.”

“You…settled all right.” Varric eyeballed him, as if testing to see how Fenris responded to the gentle teasing. When Fenris simply shrugged a shoulder, Varric added, “So, ah, mind telling a curious dwarf how all this happened?”

The old Fenris would have bristled, or gone glowing blue-white. Now, Fenris found himself chuckling. “What?” he demanded, reaching down one hand and giving his own belly a squeeze. The fat was softly malleable, spilling between his fingers. “This?”

“Yeah, Fenris,” Varric said, beginning to relax more into a grin as if sensing Fenris’s ease with his own monumental change. The hot burn of embarrassment was still there (at being discovered by old friends to have change so much), but it felt incredible, too. Powerful, like a new ability he hadn’t realized he had. “What happened? Did you eat Hawke?”

The irony of that had him snorting. Just you wait, he thought, holding that revelation close to his chest. If seeing Fenris fattened up like a prize nug was a shock to Varric and his Seeker, then seeing the state their vaulted Champion was in would blow their minds and make sure they never tried coming back. “No,” Fenris said easily, “but I ate everything else. Can’t you tell?” He gave his bowed-out belly a deliberate jiggle.

That surprised Varric into a ringing laugh. “Andraste’s knickers, Fenris, but you’ve gone and gotten fat,” he said merrily, dropping all pretense of not outright staring. “There’s three times more of you than there used to be. I hadn’t realized the Ferelden air would do you so much good.”

“Isn’t that what you told me to go do?” he shot back, chuckling a little. “Go follow Hawke, live in some town the world forgot, and get fat and happy?”

“I hadn’t figured you’d take me so literally.” Varric scratched his jaw, considering him. They were rounding the bend that would lead down to their house’s lane. Soon enough, they’d be home. “So if you’re fat and happy, I really can’t call you Broody anymore. Shit, Fenris, what kind of nickname should I give you now?”

Anticipation was building inside him; it took everything he had not to spur his horse faster, the quicker to show these invaders Hawke and convince them to leave the two of them alone—fat and happy—forever. “I’m a baker now,” he said, gripping his reins again. “You’ll find something there, I’m sure.”

Varric made a show of considering, humming low in his throat. “Dumpling,” he finally said—pausing a beat as if to make sure Fenris was okay with the name.

Dumpling. Something squeezably soft, pillowy, round. It made the corners of his lips twitch into a smile, and he inclined his chin in agreement. As much as he didn’t think of his own body all that much, Fenris had to admit that dumpling fit him all too well now.

“All right,” Varric said, grin widening at Fenris’s agreement. “Well, it’s good to see you looking so content, Dumpling. Gotta admit, I never thought I’d see the day when—”

“By the Maker!” Cassandra shouted out from behind them, voice full of shock, and Fenris whipped his attention back to the road in front of them, expecting to see Hawke in all his massive glory driving the wagon down the road to meet them.

But there was no wagon. No one on the road at all. And it wasn’t until his gaze swept the rolling green lawn and landed on the cozy little house he shared with his lover—and said lover, former Champion of Kirkwall, firmly stuck within its front door—that he realized exactly what Cassandra had seen.

And then, as he took in the round form wriggling like an eel as Hawke tried to shimmy himself free, every inch of him bouncing…as he heard Varric’s indrawn breath and saw with brand new eyes—with their eyes—just as hugely fucking fat his lover had become…Fenris tipped back his head and began to laugh.


End file.
